


This is how you remind me

by Chevelle_70



Series: The Savage Within [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Angst, Depression, Explicit Language, F/M, Lawyer Sam Winchester, Master/Slave, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slave Dean, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-07
Updated: 2017-09-04
Packaged: 2018-11-29 00:00:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 20
Words: 59,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11428974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chevelle_70/pseuds/Chevelle_70
Summary: After the Winchester brothers avenge their mother and father and prevent the Devil's Gate from being opened, Sam decides to go back to school. Lost and alone Dean continues hunting whilst plummeting into depression. That lands him in prison facing serious charges and the prospect of ruining Sam's life when he's offered a deal. So Dean sells himself into slavery and finds himself bought by a young rich woman.But he is not your average slave and neither is she your average slave owner. Will they tear each other to shreds or help each other heal?





	1. A deal's a deal

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic, so please be patient and cut me some slack. This is nerve wrecking as is, lol!  
> I wanted a slave fic with a heterosexual relationship, so no Wincest or Destiel. Sorry.  
> I am mostly exploring this story for my own sake but you are very welcome to come along for the ride. I ain't in a hurry and want to dig into the thoughts and relations of my charecters, so the story might unfold slowly.  
> Needless to say, I claim no ownership of any characters from CW's Supernatural.  
> Kudos and general support will be greatly appreciated ;)

A little over a year ago it ended. His father's quest for revenge. He did not expect it to fill the giant gaping hole in his heart, but it had to be done, so he did it. However, as he and Sam stood over the lifeless body that once contained the Yellow-eyed demon, he never realized that something else ended too.

  
The Devil's Gate was not opened, the kid who stabbed his brother in the back and almost killed him was also dead. Mission accomplished. Yet there was nothing in Dean except centuries old exhaustion. If he were a character in some book, this would be the perfect time to write "The End". Or maybe it should have been like the movies. Him and Sammy standing by Baby all bloodied and victorious. Boom, roll credits and que awesome music you never heard during the movie.  
But this was life, and life's a bitch. Life does not give you a break, especially when your world is collapsing, or when all you want is to lie down, no more spirit in you to go on. No, life continues around you like nothing happened, and worse, it drags you along, face to the pavement and all.

  
This is what happened when Sam said that he was returning to Stanford. It was as if someone sucker punched Dean in the gut and he was just supposed to smile and take it. His only lifeline, the only person who kept him grounded, was leaving. Again. Like everyone Dean ever cared about. And Dean had to support him because, hell, Sammy deserved another shot at a normal life. So Dean did. Telling Sam he needed his little brother to stay because he felt he was drowning would have been such a selfish and sissy thing to do. No, Dean could play wounded and fake anything. Fake it till you make it even when deep down you know you ain't gonna make it this time. Dean could do that. He could stow his crap for Sammy's sake and deal with it later if he had to.

  
He drove Sam to Palo Alto, he mustered up some sarcastic jibe one last time and kept his game face on even when Sam was no longer visible in the rear view mirror. It wasn't until he checked into the motel and came out of the shower into an empty room that it hit him. He was alone. He'd been on his own before, sure, but never truly alone. This time he was. Dad was dead, Sam was out. And all Dean had was a disgusting gnawing in his stomach and a strange numbness in his heart. That night he drank without getting drunk or falling asleep. Just sat there, glass eyed, expressionless, almost all life drained out of his being as he mechanically pumped more fire water into his unresponsive system. Needless to say, things went south from there on.

  
Dean changed after he and Sam parted ways. He hunted alone and he was a force to be reckoned with, giving the hunters food for stories of his awesome, dangerous stunts. But he also kept distancing himself from Bobby and Ellen and pretty much anyone else. Probably because they started calling him out on his recklessness more often. He couldn't stand their concerned looks and subtle questions, the pain for him on their faces. They were scratching at a very thin inner barrier he tried so hard to build.

  
Truth be told, Dean didn't know what to do about that dark void in his soul that seemed to grow, sucking all joy out of his life, making him care less and less about things that once seemed to give him pleasure or were once important. He kept going through the motions though, killing, drinking and fucking his way across America all with that charming smile of his that somehow failed to reach his eyes. Dean was going down, he knew it deep inside, but he was going down swinging.  
By the time his recklessness caught up with him, he's been tailspinning so hard, there was no way out. The parasitic emptiness had driven him to the edge, but he was too strong of a fighter to just roll over. No, he couldn't do it himself, but he knew that he'd welcome trouble if it came a'knocking. And it did. Lucky for him, this time trouble didn't sport fangs and claws, but a police badge.  
Now Dean sat handcuffed to the table in the interrogation room of the detention center and tried to feel how big of a bruise was going to swell up on his face in a few hours. Fucking figures. Dean has spent so much of his life on the dark side of the Moon, where normal people wouldn't dare tred, their laws and regulations stopped applying to him. He'd bend and break them with no hesitation, so law enforcers in turn would not really stick to the rules when dealing with Dean. He was used to it and pretty much accepted it as a part of the game.

  
When the door opened and someone new stepped inside, Dean perked up. The guy who entered gave him the creeps right away. Expensive suit, hundred dollar haircut, manicured nails. And a glint in his eyes when he looked Dean over... like a juicy steak. Dean spent enough time around predators of both human and supernatural kind to know that this guy was one.

  
"You're not my lawyer," Dean stated the obvious, his voice barely disguising his apprehension.

  
"No, I am not," the dude's face split in a smarmy smile. "But I am here to try and serve your best interests."

  
"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

  
The guy sat himself across the table and put a briefcase a little to the side. Didn't open it though.

  
"Mister Winchester, my name is Brady Cooper. I am here to discuss your options."

  
"Like what? Electrocution or a needle?" Dean was too tired and defensive, so he wasn't even trying to come up with some witty smartass remark.

  
"True, the charges you are facing are very serious. But there are some facts that will make the trial a long and difficult one," the guy ignored Dean and just plowed on, all in business mode now. "Say, the St . Louis case. Apparently, your corpse has been exhumed and the DNA matches yours completely. The DA is going to have a hard time with that in the court room and the press is gonna love you. A satanist Houdini psychopath with a body double."

  
"Yay for me, I'm gonna be famous. Hell, maybe I'll get a book and a movie deal," Dean rolled his eyes. "Is there anywhere you're going with this infodump?"

  
"Oh, believe me, I am." Dean hated that smile, it made his skin crawl. "I want to ask you, Mr. Winchester, have you thought what this will do to your brother?"

  
Dean drew up short. His jaw clenched as he glared at the sleezebag in front of him.

  
"There is nothing you can pin on Sam," he spat out finally.

  
"That may be so, but he will have to be called as a witness. And with the kind of attention you're going to get, well, some of that will surely spill onto Sam, won't it?"

  
Dean sat in silence for a while. He knew that right there and then this slimy bastard had him by the short and curlies. Dean would rather let them saw his limbs off on six o'clock news than ruin Sam's attempt at a regular life once more. But the shady polititian from planet Vulcan apparently was not yet convinced.

  
"Think about it, Dean. It's bad enough that a promising young student like Sam, a future lawyer, will have a convicted fellon for a brother. That little stain on his CV is bound to give him trouble down the line with his employers or his opponents. But to be dragged through the mud along with you during the trial... That will not only destroy his life, but shatter his heart. Hasn't he been through enough?" Compassion and understanding bled into his voice, and fake though they were, they did their job. It was all too close to home for Dean to shrug off.

  
Dean stared at the bastard, already knowing where this conversation is going. Hatered seemed to ooze out of his pores as a feverish thought crossed his mind. He muttered a single word, hoping this asshat flinches. Nothing. No reaction except a confused look.

  
"What was that, Mr.Winchester?"

  
"I said, Jesus fucking Christ, stop sweet talking me like I'm your prom date and get to the goddamn point."

  
"Very well," this human analogy of a crossroads demon nodded. "My point is, you can make it all go away just by saying yes. Any unwanted ties to your brother, your record, the charges - all of that can be wiped clean. Better yet, you will get a chance to help support Sam. He's got a full ride but he still struggles for money. He won't have to anymore, you only need to say yes to the deal I offer."

  
He snapped his briefcase open and layed a contract in front of Dean. Dean Winchester's life in exchange for his brother's. Dean sat there, staring at the black letters littering crisp white paper and failing to form comprehensive text. All he could think of was that if he declines, Sammy's life in the sun will be over. He will be dragged through hell alongside Dean because of his older brother's stupidity. And Dean wasn't even supposed to be alive. So whatever shit he had coming his way, was his own fault and his own responsability. He couldn't, had no right to bring Sam into this. And if Sammy gets not only protection but some beer money, then it's a win, right? And maybe, just maybe somewhere down the road an opportunity will come for Dean to weasel out of this crappy situation. That would be harder to do from inside the supermax.

  
Brady, an experienced recruiter, studied his project closely, sensing the resolution that was slowly taking over the handsome features of this young man as he fought a losing battle in his mind. Oh, this will be a sweet deal indeed.

  
"I have a few conditions," Dean finally spoke, sealing his fate.

  
"Of course," Brady smiled.

An hour later citizen by the name of Dean Winchester ceased to exist. Three days later a '67 Chevy Impala with a case containing two hundred and fifty grand and a letter from Dean to Sam in her back seat was anonymously delivered to Singer Auto Salvage. On that same day slave #38365 was brought to the Emerson Dealership training facility in Nevada.


	2. Worlds collide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His new owner meets Dean for the first time and their interaction is rather intimate in nature.

Margo Savage entered her penthouse and breathed in the cool air. She kicked off the much hated stiletto heels and let out a soft moan as her tired feet touched the cold tiles. The mirror hanging by the door left her frowning at herself. She's been out in the heat too long today and it showed. Her hair was a mess and her makeup was on the verge of failing her. So much for the salon visit! As she made her way to the spacious bathroom, peeling off clothes along the way and just dumping them wherever, she frowned again. She's been living without proper help for months now, which was very unbecoming and extremely inconvenient. Sure, the cleaning team provided by the building management came in once a week, but in between their visits Margo had to rough it out on her own. Which, for a young woman worth millions was not a proper lifestyle at all. Margo was not the kind of lady to overcrowd her house with help, but at least one personal assistant was a vital necessity.

  
Somewhere way back in her mind was a tiny voice suggesting that perhaps she really wanted to be alone. Maybe the real reason why she gave such an extensive list of demands for a slave to the Emerson Dealership was that she didn't expect them to find a suitable match. But Margo shut that voice out as she turned on the water and adjusted it to the rainwater setting. The call from Rebecca, her assigned sales manager at the Emerson's, came in as she was wrapping herself in a giant soft towel.

  
When Rebecca announced that they were able to line up some candidates, Margo was honestly surprised. At first though she intended to put off the viewing until tomorrow but curiosity, boredom and a shopper's itch got the better of her. Two hours later she put her regular public appearance attire on, got into her Escalade and drove to the showroom.

  
She sat comfortably in a designer arm chair, a cool fruity drink brought to her along with several files of the slaves. Rebecca joined her shortly. A young and beautiful business woman with a perfectly blinding smile, a golden tan and very fashionable nose and boob jobs, she was just like any other face out of the crowd surrounding Margo. A plastic doll with the bite of a shark. But Margo felt no antipathy towards Rebecca, because firstly, this woman was doing a good job, and secondly, Margo could just forget her once their business was done.

  
And so the presentation began. One by one eight young men were brought out and displayed before this very rich and valued customer. Margo took note of certain things mentioned by Rebecca, laying a couple of files away separately. But Rebecca has been in this business long enough to know that her customer has not yet seen what she truly wanted.

  
"Miss Savage, I must admit I set another lot aside for you," she confided. "Now, I have to warn you, he's very fresh, not fully trained and has a lot of issues. But we are prepared to offer you a training program and with a shock collar you will have no trouble with him at all. The reason I mention him now is that he fits your profile perfectly. Handsome, tall, has housekeeping skills, can serve as a chauffeur and a bodyguard as well as a pleasure slave. Great all around slave. Just see him, please."

  
Margo had to admit she was intreagued. To be offered up for a flat sale before his training was completed, he had to be special, a specimen interesting enough to be spared the grinding wheels of the slave factory, but customized to the owner's tastes. She nodded and Rebecca signaled for the slave to be brought out. When the man stepped out from behind the curtain, moved around in the display routine and then took his place in front of them, Margo fell still. He was dressed in those horrible cheap slave drawstring pants and a white tee, but even so she could tell this was a living work of art. She's been to the Vatican and the Louvre and would swear on all that is holy that this man could pose for a statue worthy of those art treasuries. She took in his powerful shoulders, broad chest, narrow waist and long, slightly bowed legs. His face was obviously handsome but he was looking down and Margo couldn't make out the details. She got up and walked over to him. Good lord, he was tall. Combined with his athletic build, he was downright intimidating. Would she feel comfortable having this beast roam around her house? He was about her age , late twenties. A little over six feet tall, but that did not clash too much with her height in heels. Most definately, together they would look great at any public venue she had to attend. A beautiful specimen like this would be good for any owner's image.

  
"Eyes up," she demanded quietly but firmly.

 

He shot a look straight at her, his large eyes burning with clear emerald fire. He remembered himself quickly enough and averted his gaze, long thick eyelashes casting gorgeous shadows on his face. Margo took his chin lightly and pushed his head a little, studying his chiseled features. Full lips, well defined cheek bones, powerful chin, strong jawline outlined by the shadow of a sexy stubble. His symmetric face was sensual and masculine at the same time, his profile noble and powerful. Dear god, were those... freckles? Oh, this was good!

  
She gripped his jaw and on que the slave opened his mouth, allowing her to examine his perfectly healthy teeth. Knowing the rules of this particular slave trading house, she guessed his teeth have been fixed up, if he ever had any problems at all. But it was a nice little test of the man's obedience. Margo stepped back, looked him up and down again and smiled to herself. Rebecca knew what she was doing when she first brought him out fully dressed. Nudity does not arouse curiosity and damn it if Margo wasn't curious now.

 

"Strip," she commanded and almost blushed, sensing that that little word came out too breathy for a cool-headed slave buyer.

  
The slave proceeded, slow enough to let her see his body move, taking off his shirt first, then his pants, allowing the clothes drop to the floor. It was immediately obvious that he was not yet fully comfortable baring himself to the prying eyes like this. Margo saw his cheeks reddening slightly in embarassement and his head dipping lower, as if he was trying to hide somehow. She put her hand on his shoulder and felt him flinch. Fighting the instinct to shush him calmingly, she glided her hand down his arm, feeling the muscle and skin underneath. Then up again and over to his back as she stepped behind him. Her touch was light but firm, as if she was dealing with a skittish colt, getting him accustomed to the human touch. He tensed up when she cupped his firm ass.

  
"He's still a virgin, is he not?" she looked at Rebecca suspiciously. That was one of her requests, she wanted a slave who's never been used by a man.

  
"As per some requests we keep some slaves' anal virginity, so yes, in that sense he's still a virgin," Rebecca smiled coyishly. "But otherwise he is very far from it. Very capable lover, this one. Naturally, completely clean bill of health."

  
"Why is he jumpy? Have you started advanced training?"

  
"No, he's just finished basic obedience and moved to intermediate,"  Rebecca admitted somewhat reluctantly. "But we did start showing him about a week ago and a couple of prospective buyers were a little too handsy. And eager to draw him a pretty picture."

  
Margo heard the slave let out a sharp breath, almost a nervous laugh. She came around to face him again and smiled, seeing his blush deepen. She layed her hand on his neck and let it rest a second, feeling his short dark blond hair tickle her fingertips. His breath slowed down and deepened as she traced her fingers down to his chest, noting natural lack of overgrowth. She wanted to resist it but quickly gave into temptation and brushed his small but percky nipple. To her surprise the slave's breath hitched. Her fingers returned to the nub and pinched it, gently at first, then increasingly harder. The slave's spine arched lightly at the growing pressure, she could see he was beginning to put some effort into controling his breath.

  
"Sensitive, aren't you?" she purred, the depth of her own voice comming unexpected to her. She ran her fingers over the only tattoo the man had. "What's with the ink?"

  
"It's not a gang or a sect symbol, we checked," the sales manager hastily assured. "We can't remove it though, as his trade house we are bound by a stipulation in his contract. Also, it would add to his cost. But should you purchase him, you will have every right to do with it as you please."

  
Margo noted that the slave shot Rebecca a hateful look at the last phrase, jaws clenching. He didn't know. He thought he secured that tat and was now finding out they screwed him over, Margo realized. Why was that primitive tat so important? She wasn't a fool, Margo knew that wasn't a satanic symbol. Did this guy stumble into a tattoo parlor drunk and stupid, or was this symbol a concious choice, she wondered.

  
"You into the occult?" that earned her a sideward glance. "What are you protecting yourself from?"

  
He didn't answer, of course, she didn't expect him to. What she also did not expect was for the slave to look straight at her, trying to read her face. A short attempt that was, though. Her hands were stilll stroking his chest, fingertips drawing soft circles around the hardenning nipple. And when Margo caught his eyes and didn't like it, she pinched the small sensitive nub. The slave responded with a small but satisfying grunt and averted his eyes.  
All of the sudden the gentleness in her touch vanished. She spread out her fingers and sharply slid them down his refined abs, scratching lightly with her nails. He gasped at the sensation, but before he could recollect himself, she already had him by the balls. Literally. His eyes shot up at her once more, fear and very reluctant excitement mixed in the translucent green. Something else was there too, but before Margo could decipher it, he closed his eyes. And licked his goddamn bottom lip, biting it slightly after his tongue traced it, all in one motion. That was one of the hottest things Margo ever saw. Her hand continued examining his balls and swelling cock and she felt him lean into her touch almost against his own will. To feel him submit to her touch was intoxicatingly delicious. She could already tell that he was well enough hung to provide pleasure when fully erect so she forced herself to stop playing with something she had yet to pay for. Margo withdrew her hand abruptly and ordered the slave to get dressed. He did so quickly. Obviously, he was ready to bolt in complete humiliation, and it gave her shameful twisted little pleasure to order him to his knees, forcing him to stew in it a little while longer. That was her sign for Rebecca that they were going to talk shop now.

  
When they finally signed the contract and the now payed for slave was being fitted with a state of the art control collar, Margo asked:  
"I have a feeling you wanted me to buy him, not the others who saw him. Why?"

  
"You are very perceptive, Miss Savage," Rebecca smiled and her smile was a little more sincere this time. "We are a respectable house and we pride ourselves on providing owners with good long-term servants. The others.... they wanted to brake him, and I personally would hate to see something this beautiful broken. Plus a broken slave makes bad publicity for us whether he lives or dies."

  
She hesitated but added in a lower voice:  
"Also, having been in sales this long, I sort of see when the buyer and the slave find each other. There's a spark, chemistry if you will. I saw that today and it would've been wrong to disregard it. With proper handling this man can become the best servant you hope to own."  
Margo winced. Deep inside her instincts were ringing alarm bells, telling her she was acquiring a freaking force of nature, but she shot that silly unfounded panic out. She had to be cool and leveled when bringing a new slave into her home.


	3. Third time's the charm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little bit more on Dean's time in training and his debut in the sales ring

The first few months they called him "shovel", "pick ax", "basket", "wheel barrow". They took away his name and gave him a fourteen hour work day of hard manual labor. He followed orders without missing a beat. He dug trenches from here to sunset and right after filled them back up. He carried rocks up a hill in Nevada heat and threw them down only to go pick them up again. He ran marathons and crawled through their endurance courses. Sweat in his eyes and sand on his teeth. Meaningless physical labor meant to turn him into an obedient worn out beast of burden.

  
Joke was on them. Dean's body was exhausted, sure, but his weary soul was getting a break. There was no responsibility resting like a tombstone on his shoulders. No one to fuss over, no one to feel guilty about. Maybe it was a bit like distracting yourself from a tooth ache by breaking a leg, or curing depression by getting kicked in the groin, but it worked. He simply had no strength or time to sing the blues. And strangely enough, this helped him somewhat.  
He wasn't whipped or starved, just worked to the point of collapsing. The newly recruited slave was yet to pay off his purchase price, so there was no point in ruining the merchandise. When they wanted to punish him, they did so without breaking skin. If his purchasers wanted, they could carve his hide into belts and no one would care. But he had to hit the market in good condition. The fact that he already had scars didn't matter, a significant percentage of fresh slaves had their life troubles written out on their skin.

  
Now, Dean's always had problems with authority, but this time he signed up for this, so, surprisingly, he showed little of his usual attitude. And when he screwed up, he could take what they dished out. He's stood at the pillar of shame, deprived of food and water, he's run extra miles with a bag of sand on his shoulders, and he's been caned a few times, but who were they kidding? He was trained by John Winchester and fought things that would send any of his overseers howling to the nuthouse. He could handle this.

  
His seemingly agreeable behavior allowed them to move #38365 up to the basic course. So he was loaded into a live cargo van and delivered from the middle of friggin' nowhere to a facility just outside of L.A. Oh yeah, he was gonna be living the dream in the City of Flowers and Sunshine for sure now. Well, at least he wouldn't be chewing on everpresent desert dust anymore. His new stage of training was mostly done indoors. Yup, Dean was going to school, sort of.... Almost like Sam somewhere nearby.... By now Dean had fallen into a certain routine, a daily rhythm to get him through training without losing whatever marbles he had left. Strangely enough, the word "training" itself helped. Dean could do training, he's done it since he was a toddler, following orders just like now, without questioning or giving it too much thought.

  
The truth of where his line was didn't come out when he was moved further in his training as they started teaching him general basics for a proper slave. There was nothing he cared to resist there as they taught him how to stand, how to sit, how to look without pissing his master off, go about his duties unnoticed. Housekeeping, cooking, protocol, for some, including him, - guard duty training and a driving course. Easy enough, even enjoyable sometimes. It frustrated him a little to be kept in a tiny solitary cell every night and to see no action aside from a single test drive from a female evaluator. But he didn't really worry about what was in store for him until they started showing him this week.  
The past week did not start out too well for Dean. This chick, Rebecca, took a special interest in him for some reason. Her attention was not of the fun kind. She had the man brought to her office, drooled over him and cooed in a way that clued him in that she had someone lined up to buy him. Rebecca only confirmed his suspicion when she started instructing him on presentation and the penalty that awaited him if he stepped out of line during a viewing. She forced him to run the presentation routine a few times and let him go. That visit left a gross aftertaste and an uneasy feeling of uncertainty.

  
The first potential buyer was a preppy kid younger than Dean, maybe Sam's age. But if ever there was hate at first sight, this was it. At least on Dean's side. The kid was a dick, obviously. Short, stick-insect thin, face like he was permanently sucking on a lemon, and worse - painfully insecure. That was made clear as soon as this pathetic momma's boy saw Dean. He was everything Dean was not and Dean could practically feel the kid's desire to take it out on the slave's hide. If this kid bought him, he'd take full advantage of his power over another human being who had something the kid wanted - good looks and height. Probably get "revenge" for all the times jocks like Dean picked on him by humiliating and abusing someone who was powerless to stop him.

  
He groped Dean shamelessly, sending the slave into panic when ordering him to bend over and feeling him up in a way Dean was very uncomfortable with. All his slave training went out the window the second another guy's crotch pressed against his ass. Rebecca's death grip on his neck prevented him from bolting and fighting. Still, Dean was just about to lose it and rip the little dipshit's slimy hands off when Rebecca, bless her self-serving bitch heart, told the little dickhead that pay came before play. Dean was pathetically grateful to her at that point.

  
The second buyer was even worse. If the kid gave him the creeps, this guy full-on freaked him out. He was a pediatrician in his fifties, but in Dean's mind he could just as well have been a Nazi prison warden. Never in his life would Dean take his kid to see such a fucking lizard. The guy was cold, methodical and thorough in his examination.

  
With a clinical precision this Dr.Lecter wannabe pushed Dean to the brink of pain and observed the slave's reaction. No doubt, if he took Dean home to play, the words "no pain, no game" would take on a whole new meaning. Granted, Rebecca was keeping an eye on their interaction, and she wouldn't let Dean get hurt before final sale, but all that sadistic stretching and pulling was rattling Dean's nerves.  
And when dear old Doc Hannibal felt the waves of fear coming off the slave he started making it clearer in his commentary as to what exactly awaited Dean if he was bought by this guy. And why, oh why did they all want to role-play alien abduction, probing and all?! Before testing of Dean's physical and mental limits got too challenging, Rebecca intervened again. Luckily for Dean, both these douches wanted a better trained, more controllable slave for that amount of money and were willing to wait before getting a piece of his sweet ass.

  
By the third viewing Dean was certain he'd found his limits and was ready to make a run for it if another scuzzball came to grope him and whisper dirty wet fantasies in his ear. Each of the previous viewings left him with an urge to peal off his own skin, crawl out of it, scrub it raw, just to rid himself of the ghost of their sticky grabbing. That made it all the more embarrassing when his own body betrayed him and he reacted so eagerly to that lady's touch.  
Going in for round three, he was determined to resist from the start. Sure, he got himself into this mess, and there was no one here to bail him out. But that didn't mean he'd spread it for some perv with a little extra cash. The fact that behind door number three stood a hot young woman was not supposed to change his determination. She was still on the wrong side of the barricades. So the warm tingly pleasure he felt now was downright shameful, and the poor man was silently kicking himself for it. A little sexual frustration, combined with lack of motivation, and Dean's stupid body was screaming for her to continue.

  
Hard to believe it, but his luck finally changed and he was actually purchased by this classy beautiful chick he was following now. Stealing a look at her ass he thought, yeah, he could work with this. Sweet merciful awesome, she was hot. Long legs, ass you could bounce a nickel off, breasts that would fit perfectly in his large hands, face of a Hollywood diva. He could imagine caressing that smooth, barely sun-kissed skin, making that body writhe with passion underneath him, burying his hands in the dark silky waves of her hair guiding her lower.... God, he needed to get layed! The fact that he could still feel her hands tracing his scars and gripping his dick was not helping.  
She walked over to a white Escalade and tossed him a set of keys. He opened a back seat door for her but she told him she'd sit up front. Dean corrected himself and helped her climb into the car as he was taught. Quickly taking his place behind the wheel, he started the engine and threw a careful glance at his new owner.

 

"Where to, Mistress?" he dared prod when no instructions followed. She turned her face to look at him with those big dark eyes he couldn't read and dropped:  
"The mall. You need clothes."

  
Yeah, that wasn't really specific, but since Dean was trained for serving as a chauffeur, the map of L.A. was practically drilled into his mind. So he shrugged and drove the car into the street, already knowing a suitable place. Hopefully, this woman wasn't one of those owners, who expect slaves to be friggin' mind readers just to throw an epic bitch-fit and go all torture master when they fail.

  
He didn't realize that this was the first time she heard him speak. Surprised as she was that he dared open his mouth, she was completely stunned at the effect of that low, slightly raspy voice that shot straight below the belt, awakening a warm arousing sensation. Margo was torn between not letting him speak much from now on and wanting to hear him talk again.


	4. Calypso's island

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean moves into Margo's house and some ground rules are established. Margo seems to be a very liberal owner, but Dean is naturally cautious and mistrusting. Because there's always a catch, isn't there?

Anyone who's ever brought a new kitten or puppy into their home, knows how important that first day is. Now imagine bringing home a six foot odd tall, almost two hundred pound man who's to occupy about the same niche as a cat or a dog. Straining, to put it mildly. Maybe it was that pressure that turned Margo's shopping into something more akin to Attila's march on Byzantium. She stormed from one store to another with determination of a conquering general, ordering what she wanted quickly and efficiently. Dean, a bit alarmed and alerted by the furrowed brow and tightened lips of his new Mistress, kept a low profile and did his best to keep up.

  
There was still no telling what he could expect from her, which was offputting, and her cold driven attitude was not all too promising. Dean took what she shoved into his hands, tried it on in the dressing room, got her approval and as quickly as that was dragged on. Somehow along the way he lost his auction house clothes and ended up wearing things close to his usual choice - jeans, a t-shirt and boots. And my if he wasn't relieved that Margo's idea of propper slave attire did not include lingerie and sex-shop outfits! The collar on his neck aside, he looked like his regular self now.

  
Except he wasn't his old self. He realized that when he got into the first changing booth. In its seeming privacy, shut off from the busy life outside, he was alone face to face with his reflection. When he saw it in the dressing room mirror, he froze at first. Dean hadn't looked at himself in a long time and didn't expect to see such change. The dead apathy written on his face, the hunted look of a prey animal, the now permanent shadows under his eyes and around his mouth. The hunter's strong body lacked the pride of a self-assured warrior it once had. It carried itself like a slave's body now, obvious in the way he held his shoulders, his head, his neck. There was a sickly vulnerability so characteristic of a slave in his entire demeanor. It seemed so foreign, unnatural and yet real, that Dean was stunned. He just kept staring at the stranger in the mirror until his Mistress called to him impatiently. Dean cursed himself for being so overwhelmed. So what if he hasn't been to a normal place like the mall in over a year? So what if he looked a little different now? He signed up for this shit, noone forced him to, so no use crying now.

  
By the end of their two hour spree, he had everything he needed: regular clothes and footwear, a grooming kit, and even more formal attire for special events. Honestly, he was surprised his Mistress would be so generous. It was not uncommon for slaves of even the richest folk to go through life barely dressed. Maybe even more so for the rich, cause they had enough resourses to burn through slaves and needn't care about preserving the individual servant. When Dean thanked his owner after stuffing the bags into the trunk, he was being sincere. The warmth that washed over her face, erasing the coldhearted bitch look, gave Dean a glimmer of hope for the first time since he's met Margo. She smiled at him, a soft and tired smile, and just told him her, and now his, address.

  
It was safe to say that never in his life has Dean stepped inside a downtown luxury residence highrise. The parking lot alone was a sight to behold. He parked the large car in the underground garage and was pointed to several neighbouring gleaming toys and told they were his responsibility now. Dean's heart forever belonged to Baby, but he had to admit it would be fun to get his hands on the sexy little Audi R8 with 420 horses under its hood. Or the new Maserati Quattroporte next to it. Or even the Rolls Royce. But especially on the classic '68 Dodge Charger R/T 426 V8 Hemi TorqueFlite. The rather inconspicuous Range Rover seemed an odd addition to the lineup but Dean figured it was more for the likes of him than Mistress herself, who by the way had a good taste in cars. The Charger was the one that scored her extra points in Dean's book. Who needs six cars though?

  
Mistress was getting tired, so he was only allowed a few seconds to look at the cars, take the bags from the trunk and follow her to the lobby. There he was registered with the building security, his collar ID was entered into the system and he was given his set of keys. They took a private elevator up to the penthouse. That was not as fun as it sounded at first. The elevator was the glass box kind with a perfect view of the city. The kind that gave you a full impression of soaring above the busy streets. Dean so did not want to soar! Or get that gross tugging in his stomach that you get on such rides. After they passed the tenth floor, the former hunter, who never had anything against other types of elevators, figured he hated this thing almost as much as flying.

  
"Are you afraid of heights?" a velvety voice snapped him to attention.

  
"I'm sorry, Mistress," came the trained response. Be sorry, even if you don't know what for. Be sorry and maybe be safe. "Never been in an elevator like this before."

  
"Not exactly what I asked."

  
He hasn't been a slave long, but enough to register danger in his owner's voice.

  
"Flying," he admitted flatly. "I have a problem with flying. Guess this qualifies too. Not so much the height as the whole crashing and burning thing. Mistress."

  
Good thing he still had enough of a grip on himself to add that last part. No sense pissing off his new owner even more now that he was forced to tell her his chink in the armor. But she didn't seem too pissed. Slightly amused, sure, but not pissed. Margo drew herself close to her slave, almost pressing her body to his. Their lips were almost touching when she murmured:  
"We'll have to work on that. I was planning on fucking you here."

  
A small whimper escaped Dean's lips as he struggled to compose himself. Fear of crashing was no longer his top concern as his body was raging a riot against prolonged celibacy and this continuous teasing. Burnt wendigo stench. Vamp blood splashing him in the eyes. Dug up grave reek. Insides of a werewolf kill. For once he was grateful for the abundance of disgusting memories to call up in order to subdue "little Dean" in his noble fight for freedom.

  
At the trade house they wanted him hungry, starved and begging for release for when advanced training started or someone bought him out. A few times he attempted to help himself and learned the hard way that his body was not his, his pleasure and pain now out of his control. So the only hope now was the mercy of his Mistress, but she seemed to have too much fun teasing him for this problem to be solved anytime soon.

  
These thoughts and the haze of arousal pretty much occupied Dean the rest of the way. By the time they arrived he was trying to hide his very strange attempts at Lamaz breathing behind his owner's back. But as soon as the elevator doors opened, Dean forgot about it. He was on fucking "MTV Cribs"! Taking the sight before him in, he thought, ok, he could get used to this.

  
This place was huge. And full of light from panoramic windows. It even had an outside sun deck with a small garden, a pool and a jacuzzi. Before giving him a tour of the place, Mistress took him to his room. That he did not expect, but he'd heard that very fancy places had small "cubicules" for house slaves. It was a tiny but clean space with a cot, small window and a small built-in wardrobe and an extremely tiny bathroom. Of course, the door only locked from the outside. He dumped his bags on the cot and followed his "girl roommate". Which was not as cool as it sounded since said roomie could zap him with electricity through a fucking collar, he reminded himself. Electrocution was not on his extensive kink list.

  
All in all it was a cool place, noticebly lacking any sort of space or devices for torturing a slave, which Dean was calling a win. Only three master rooms had doors - bathroom, bedroom and the study. The rest of the living area was divided into sections by steps. The general design was not the minimalistic ultra-modern crap he expected, but rather cozy, with lots of wood, bamboo, leather hides, and a traveling theme all around. There were authentic looking native things from Africa, Australia and Asia and god knows where else. Dean wondered if she just bought this stuff or actually brought it from her travels. The living room had a huge TV and a sound system that made Dean drool. He wondered if it would be possible to use them a little if he was left home alone or would it show up on the electricity bills.

  
"You can look around while I change," he almost startled when Margo spoke. That gave him ten minutes for a more thorough sweep of the place. Dean pondered if it would be at all possible to lay some salt lines or hide a devil's trap. Then it crossed his mind that he was the unlucky bastard who's gotta keep all of this clean. The third thought came from a nagging little feeling, from intuition based on extensive experience. Looking around once more, Dean realized what triggered it - complete lack of personal photographs. Any normal house has pictures of the owner and their family. Here there were none. Dean stored that info for later as he listened for the lady's footsteps.

  
Margo changed into jeans and a cotton peasant blouse and looked through some paperwork she had prepared for her new acquisition. When she stepped out of the bedroom, she discovered the slave looking under the rug in the hallway.

  
"All right, slave, front and center, on the double!" Margo pointed in front of the couch while curling up in her favorite spot. Dean squinted his green eyes suspiciously. Sure, she was expected to boss him around, but that exact wording was not something he associated with a rich penthouse dwelling woman. He did as he was told though and knelt where she wanted him.

  
"Name?"

  
"I'll answer to whatever you chose to call me, Mistress," he hated to have to say it, but did so without missing a beat. Still, in his mind it made him sound like a hooker.

  
"Well I chose to call you by a name that you're used to," she smiled. Or he figured she did by the sound of her voice, as his eyes were trained on the handmade rug under his knees. He paused, considering the possibility of giving her an alias, but finally breathed out:

  
"Dean. Name's Dean, Ma'am."

  
"Well, Dean, you now belong to Margo Savage, but you will adress me as Mistress or Ma'am. Ok, formal intro out of the way, let's talk about your duties."

  
Well, she talked, Dean listened. It helped that she had a schedule and a list of chores printed out. Very thoughtful of her that was. His day was to start at six. An hour and a half in the gym on the first floor. Then he was to quietly do chores and prepare breakfast by 9 AM. Serve it to her in bed. Help her get ready for whatever she had planned and either accompany her or stay home and do more chores. Tend to her cars in the garage if need be. Make lunch and dinner. Clock out whenever she let him go for the day. He basically had to take care of her, and that was not exactly something foreign to Dean. Easy enough, especially when it turned out he would have help once a week.

  
"Once in a while you will do shopping. I'll order a slave card in my bank, should be ready in a week. Till then you'll get cash and I will check the change," she concluded and noticed him steeling a glance at her. "What?"

  
"You'd trust me out in town with money, Ma'am?"

  
"No, I'm gonna hog-tie you in the basement and haul heavy shopping bags myself," Margo snorted. "You will have a lot of duties that will take you outside of the premises, so yeah, you're going to get money and use the Rover downstairs. And even if I do not yet trust you, that pretty little accessory you're sporting is enough to ensure your cooperation. Should we test it now, or will you take my word for it?"

  
Dean shuddered. Couldn't help it, he just knew what a shock collar was all too well. And this was an even more sophisticated one than what they used at the center. He was not eager to find out what it could do. Dean shook his head.

  
"No, Mistress, I read you loud and clear. Full cooperation. Got it."

  
"Good boy," she smiled. "Now, Q&A time. Shoot."

  
Margo waited as he picked his words carefully. Dean was honestly worried about cooking for her. Rich chic like that was bound to observe some sort of wierd-ass exotic rabbit food diet. And that was way out of his comfort zone. But how do you go about telling that to a person who can not only zap you just for shits and giggles, but sell you to someone much worse for your incompetence?

 

"I'm not exactly Gordon Ramsey, Ma'am," he admitted a bit nervously. "If you're expecting something fancy, you might be disappointed."

  
"Oh no, you won't get out of kitchen duty that easy," Margo laughed. -"As long as you can handle meat and boil some random stuff for a soup, you and I are going to be fine. Just do your best with the things in the fridge and we'll see."

  
"Do you want to feed me rations?"  god, he was sick of pre-packaged slave rations. They all tasted like ass. In fact, he was so desparate for normal food, he didn't even notice that he was straight out staring at Margo, pleading with his eyes for her to say no to that idea. The amuzed look on her face clued him in quick enough.

  
"You may eat regular food. But watch your diet. I want you aesthetically pleasing. And no junk food or booze. Unless I give you some."

  
"Thank you, Ma'am,"  came a sigh of relief.

  
"Well, now I know what to hold over your head," she half-joked. Dean was less than comfortable with that statement. This was a very complicated game he was playing and the less leverage he gave to his master, the better. She already had the upper hand, no sense giving it all up completely.

  
"Um, what about the TV and the computer 'n stuff?"  hey, it was worth a try.

  
"Why would you need that?" Margo really had nothing against him using the entertainment center once in a while, but teasing this man was too much fun.

  
"Might need to look something up. Dunno, recipies or whatever," the slave mumbled.

  
"And the TV?"  He didn't respond. He couldn't explain how much he'd missed simple comforts of civilization in those god forsaken barracks. But Dean knew he was asking too much and was ready to leave it.

  
"Dean, look at me," Margo looked into those green desperate eyes. "You are not going to rack up my bills if you use the TV. But only when I'm away, not too loud and no porn. You may use the computer when I am at home and only for specified purposes. I will monitor your activities in that regard."

  
It was a big privilege and they both knew it. Dean though this was too good to be true as he dipped his head lower and thanked Margo. He dare not push his luck further and Q&A was over.

  
"Listen, Dean, I need you to understand something," Margo said in conclusion. "I have neither the time, nor the energy to micromanage you. That means you will enjoy a certain amount of independence. I also have no desire to dehumanize someone I have to rely on. Not a big fan of all that "slaves are just talking tools" approach that seems to be so fashionable now. But hear me when I say, I will not hesitate to punish you if you misbehave. I cannot afford any inconvenience your tresspasses might cause. I want a smooth running operation. As long as you achieve that, we'll do just fine. Understood?"

  
"Yes, Mistress, thank you,"  oh he understood all right. Do your job, don't piss me off and I won't whip your ass raw and make you eat off the floor like a dog. Fair deal, what slave could ask for more? Come on, how stupid would he have to be to take her words any other way?

  
With this Dean was sent to the kitchen to make dinner and Margo submerged herself into Dean's documents, especially the instruction manual to his collar, which apparently had enough electronics to land a rover on Mars. Recommendations from the slave trading house included such gems as a suggestion to keep the new slave physically exhausted, because "a tired slave is more controllable and compliant", "make him earn his food and clothes", and "punish more strictly for transgressions than you would normally to establish boundaries". Margo thought that she herself would have been terrified to come into a new household and it would have been nice if someone showed her some kindness if she were a captive. But on the other hand, she did not want to keep the reins too loose. A spoiled slave with Dean's physique could be downright dangerous, especially with evidence of a previous violent lifestyle all over that hot body of his.

  
Margo turned the TV on, her mind still on the new person now occupying the same living space. An hour later Dean served her a hell of a steak with mashed potatoes and salad in the living room. Afterwards he did the dishes, quietly grabbed a bite in the kitchen and sat at Margo's feet as she channel surfed. For a while he could hear beeping from inside his collar, as Margo played with its settings. It was annoying, to be reminded of his status once more, but he was also thinking that getting this thing off might not be as easy as he'd previously thought. Maybe he could get in touch with Ash and get that Lynyrd Skynyrd roadie to work his magic. Dean stopped himself before his mind strayed away into painful nostalgia for the places and people he left in his other life.

  
Suddenly, he felt something very comforting, something new and strange. Lost in thought Margo sank her fingers into his spiky hair, softly stroking it as if he were a cat or a dog. Such a cozy domestic scene, if not for the collar on his neck. Dean didn't care. Her touch sent pleasant shivers down his spine, his belly was stuffed with normal people food, he was dosing off in front of a TV and at this point he was willing to accept any tiny scrap of good that came his way. Nothing ever came without a catch, like a sharp hook concealed by a seductive piece of bait. The other shoe had to drop, it always did. But between then and now he'd soak up whatever pleasure life dosed out.


	5. Playing house

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First day passes, then the first week. And, surprisingly, it isn't Dean who's having the harder time adjusting.

Dean was not a morning person but who cared about that now, right? Reluctantly he dragged his ass out of bed at 6 AM as ordered and started his first day on the job. Thank goodness no one was there to hear his moody bitchy mumbling. He almost fell asleep on the bench at the slave gym and the exercise session passed in a sleepy fuzz. Woke up for the second elevator ride though. He hated this thing. Was Margo serious about fucking him here? Dean looked around, evaluating the possibilities for sexual activity in the glass box. A cold shower was more than welcome after that. It was inhumane to deprive a man of sex and pie, or whiskey for that matter, Dean concluded as he was trying to figure out what Margo would like for breakfast.

  
That was a frustrating experience and Dean hated the fact that it had to be a test. Of course it was. Margo could try and pretend to be a softcore owner, but Dean wasn't buying it. OK, so she probably wasn't the kind of person to eat one of those gross egg-white omlets Sam would. So a normal omlet should do. With toast. And judging by stains on the coffe machine, she'd prefer coffee over tea. That's a start. He threw in some other stuff just in case. At 9 sharp he knocked on the bedroom door and brought in the breakfast tray.

  
Margo was awake and probably up for some time. There was a wet towel on the floor and her dark silky hair was still messed up from the blow dryer, making her look more sexy than when it was all done up. She seemed more accessible, more human. Margo was sitting on the bed with her back against the headboard, her dark eyes alert and studying him.

  
-Morning, Dean, - she purred as she stretched, bending her body like a tight bow, the outline of her breasts under the almost see-through nighty impossible to ignore.

  
-Morning, Mistress, - he grunted, arranging the tray on her lap. Was it hot in the room? Maybe it was because she's just taken a shower and the door to the bathroom was open... where just minutes ago she was completely naked, water beading her skin and streaming down her body.... Dean fought against that mental image, before it got him into trouble.

  
Oblivious, Margo signaled for him to kneel by the bed and dug in. Dean carefully noted exactly what she picked first and what she ignored. Valuable information. This was what he fucking lived for now. Meanwhile Sam was learning some dorky boring book stuff. To each his own. He just had to keep that thought like a post-it note on the fridge - that as long as Sam was free to pursue his happiness, Dean could deal with anything. Because hadn't that been his dream? For Sammy to have a normal apple-pie life? Sam was the one who could actually do it. And he was smart too. Dean's been a freak and a grunt for so long now, the white picket fence was a totally foreign concept.

  
Margo snapped him out of the self-deprecating train of thought, setting the tray aside and announcing that she's got things to do and will be gone all day, so he should start on the chores around the house.

  
"By the way," she leaned in so close that Dean could feel the damp warmth of her after-shower skin and smell the shampoo on the strands of hair tickling his face. "Thanks for breakfast."

  
Her fingertips guided his face closer and he followed the touch as if in a trance. The kiss was chaste and soft, just her lips taking his. A small reward for having done something right. And yet it was more enticing than Dean wanted to admit. He wanted more. Much more. Worse part was, when they broke off, he could see in those big dark eyes of hers the knowledge of just what exactly she was doing to a man. She didn't smile, and Dean was grateful for that tiny bit of tact. It took another half an hour for her to leave and Dean stayed out of her way, shy and confused, but more willing to let Margo shoot him than admit it.

  
Leaving Dean in a luxury appartment and telling him he'd be alone till at least 8 PM was like leaving a kid in a candy store overnight. His Mistress was a smart woman, so Dean figured, she'd expect him to use his time not only for chores, but for fun. But business had to come first and business involved snooping around. After making sure there were no hidden cameras in the place, he started with the office.

  
Dean went through some papers, but it was just a bunch of contracts, business letters and such. No use to him. Found a boatload of books on lots of subjects. Politics, economy, psychology, business, history. OK, he knew she was smart but such a wide range gave him no idea of what she actually did. Yeah, she was stinking rich, but didn't most successful rich people get an education and specialize in something? Or have a hobby? Good thing though, he found some nice books among the boring useless stuff. Flipping through "Cat's Cradle" he wondered if Margo would let him read. Well, if she didn't, he could always sneak a book while she's out.

  
His most important find was the manual to his collar. It was also the most upsetting one. There was no fucking way to get this "ultra-strong, lightweight titanium alloy" piece of crap off without Margo or without setting off an alarm. And there was a GPS tracker that would send his coordinates to the cops in case he went AWOL. Until then the collar had everything in it to make a slave as controlable as possible. The owner, through several means, could set a roaming range, monitor activity from a distance and, oh, the good part - send a different level of "electric signals" through to the slave's body from a soft buzz to a knock out shot. Good to know.

  
Even if he could stop his owner from getting her hands of the remote control, which was fashioned into that watch Margo's worn ever since she bought him, she'd still be able to send commands to the collar. Thank god for internet and mobile apps! And as soon as the alarm's set off he'd have police on his ass with a full knowledge of his coordinates. He definately needed to talk to Ash. And there's another problem. Dean needed to make a few phonecalls, but he couldn't use the phone in the appartment. Out of city calls would show up on the bills and he would have a hard time explaining them. Well, Dean guessed he'd have to wait until grocery day or something.

  
Next he tried to get into the computer, but failed miserably. After half an hour of unsuccessfully cracking the password, Dean decided to give it a try later. He had more important things to tend to. Like the beautiful sparkling pool outside. It was just calling out to him seductively, who was Dean to say no? After all he'd endured he was entitled to something pleasant. It was around lunch time when he decided that it was enough. Dean rustled up some grub and settled in front of the huge-ass TV.

  
Life seemed almost normal again. So what if his past year was wasted in a fucking prison, where each day was aimed at carving him into a beast of burden. So what if a few days ago he was petrified (to a point of barfing) of ending up as some sicko's fuck-toy. And so what if the thing around his neck was not his necklace but a goddamn shock collar.

  
Dean switched the TV off angrily. He needed to punch something, but there just wasn't anything available. His anger died down, turning into anxiety and then that burnt-out nothingness he was so familiar with. Despite his earlier discision he picked up the phone and dialed the number in Sioux Falls. Then dropped the call before it conected and shoved the phone back in place as if it were a venomous snake.

  
It was best not to call Bobby. There was no point, the old man couldn't help him, he'd just get worked up over it. And hearing about Sam... well, Dean wasn't sure he could handle talking about his little brother right now. Dean was not one to wallow in misery, so he shoved all that crap aside and got up off his butt. He had a job to do, might as well do it.

  
A lifetime ago Dean Winchester was a chamelion. He was able to blend into a new environment's structure so well, it scared his brother. Throw Dean into a jail and within a day he'd be James Garner from "The Great Escape". Get him into a frat house and voila, he's the quintessential frat boy from a damn Porky's movie. Get him into being a PA in Hollywood and he's the best damn PA to walk a film set. You need a fed or Homeland Security? You got it, he'd flash that badge deadpanned and buldoze right over the real cops. Dean could adjust, to say the least.

  
This gig was a lot like that. No longer officially Winchester, but still Dean, he was thrown into unknown waters and took to them like a fish. It was a deception good enough to fool even those who knew him well. If they saw him now, they'd be shocked if not apalled. And yet he could feel that Margo wasn't entirely buying it. Dean's never owned another person, so he didn't know that everpresent subconcious fear of the slave owner that their slave could turn on them one day.  
Karma's a bitch, and no one knew that better than the people who armed themselves with the nastiest toys to control those who they strived to strip of humanity. Few things compare to a slave rebellion in its visiousness and brutality. Thus, Margo was far from being fooled by Dean's apparent complience, it was just her survival instinct in action. Much like someone who worked with large predators, she never got too comfortable in the presence of the wild animal Dean reminded her of.

  
There were moments that let her know he wasn't exactly an opressed and downtrodden captive. On cleaning day she returned to see him letting the crew out of the appartment. He was grinning like the Cheshire cat, flirting with both maids simultaniously and on first name basis with the pool boy and the gardner. More than anything else he looked like a generous host talking to his departing guests. Oh, he put on the subservient look once he registered his owner's presence, but she'd seen enough.

  
The first time she took him grocery shopping she noticed his eyes darting around as if he was looking for something. Margo feared he might try to escape, so that whole trip took a lot out of her. By the time it was over she was exhausted from the hyper-vigilance. Next time, she decided, when Dean would have to leave the house, she'd monitor his movements online. Thank god for technology.

  
Still, life went on and for about a week, maybe a week and a half, both young people tried to fall into some sort of normality within the situation none of them felt comfortable in. Admittedly, Dean did make Margo's life easier. Things that needed fixing were fixed, laundry and ironing, cooking and cleaning - all she hated doing was now done for her. It's been quite a while since she's enjoyed some help.

  
With her gone most of the day, Dean didn't suffer from an overbearing presence of a master. Even though he wasn't allowed out of the apartment the first few days, he had enough to keep him from climbing the walls. Plus, he was granted access to the garage pretty soon. Once under the hood of a car, he was lost to the world. That helped. Though when he saw the strange pensive look his Mistress gave him one evening, when he returned from the garage all dirty and covered in grease, he feared she'd revoke that privilege. He apologized awkwardly and decided to clean up down in the garage from now on.

  
To Margo the strangest thing was that she couldn't push herself to take Dean as she's ment to when she saw him naked on purchase day. His body alone was a testimony of God's love for mankind. Or, rather, womankind. But there was a more important component to Dean's cursed primal magic. He was a walking talking carnal sin, a living promise of sex. He breathed seduction, it was in every move he made, every little thing he did. With every step he took, Dean was seducing the world itself, flirting with everything and everyone around him with his irresistable boyish charm. Curiously though, sometimes it was used as an agressive gesture, a weapon. Dean flirted when something scared him just as much as when something pleased him. And rarely was any of it done conciously, he himself wasn't a self-absorbed bastard spoiled by women, even though he knew he had a definate appeal. With all that animal magnetism, Dean seemed vulnerable, sincere... and genuine.

  
This facinated Margo. She could observe him endlessly, trying to figure out what this man was. And she started to see why, even though he clearely was only into the opposite sex, some men tried to buy him for their pleasure. And why they probably wanted to hurt him. When someone is a fountain of temptation like Dean, those who aren't able to drink their fill turn violent from frustration, hurting the object of their desire. People often tend to try and destroy things they can't control or understand. History has known many an ugly example of this, usually involving women as the hurt party though.

  
Margo herself, thankfully, has not reached that frightful point yet. Not understanding it herself, she only felt appreciation for what she'd encountered. More importantly, Margo had to figure out why all this sex that surrounded Dean like a cloud of pheromones, was having such a strange effect on her personally. She wanted him, she owned him. There wouldn't be a problem at all, no resistance from him, just an obligation to please. Why couldn't she just take what was hers? After all, a slave seemed so convenient - more so than a free man, who you'd have to seduce, who'd expect you to make compromises, dump his problems on you. Who could hurt you. And yet something was stopping her every time she worked up to it.  
In her mind, tension was building from day to day and Margo's discomfort grew every time she looked into his unbelievably beautiful eyes that gave away the depth behind the facade. How could a real life person have such eyes? Or move like he did? Or make her feel both cautious and tempted? His presence in her home was more difficult than she ever anticipated. Margo could feel it, like the first tremors running through the ground weeks before a volcanic eruption. Something was coming, a storm, a tsunami. A destructive force she had no power over. And she brought it onto herself. A strange resignation washed over and settled in Margo's every waking hour.


	6. Too much information

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean finds out something painful from Margo's past, something that is bound to complicate things for both of them.

She'd been gone all day, taking care of the business empire that according to TV and magazines allowed her to never work a day again and which in truth was sucking the life out of her. She hasn't slept well or enough in a long time and today, like on many an occasion, she's forgotten to eat. If it weren't for Dean cooking for her, she would be skipping meals without noticing until one day she'd pass out. It's happened before. It was one of the reasons she needed a servant. She couldn't tell anyone how screwed up things were, especially not a slave. But that's how her life worked now.

  
Margo looked at her reflection in the hallway mirror and grimaced. The pleasant mask she's had plastered on her face all day slipped away and for a brief moment Margo saw her true face. A sick, broken-and-healed-wrong, twisted thing with hollow, dead eyes and a stone cold determination to die standing. A jaded mandarin. She looked away, too afraid of the abyss opening up. She couldn't afford to go there. Not when there was another person she had to play a role for.  
That's when she discovered there was something odd going on in the house. First of all, Journey was blasting from the living room and a rather tone-deaf voice was loudly singing along to the "Wheel in the sky". Margo took off her shoes and crept into the living room like a thief. The sight before her was one to behold. Dean was setting the table for dinner and butchering Journey at the same time. He was enjoying himself in a completely uninhibited manner, doing air guitar and banging on air drums and totally rocking the song with his entire body.

  
Margo didn't interrupt him, but instead relocated herself to the cabinet where she couldn't be seen, grabbed a bottle of scotch, took a generous swig from it and fished out the remote control for the entertainment center. Mercifully the Wheel in the sky stopped turning soon enough and Margo pushed the remote button, preventing any further vocal exercises. Dean spun around and froze with a deer in the headlights look on his face.

  
"Mistress," he uttered in horror.

  
"Dean," good thing she was exhausted or resisting laughter would have been harder. "Enjoying my classic rock collection?"

  
For the first few seconds Dean could not decide which approach to take since he couldn't tell how much he'd screwed up. But he was good at thinking fast and, putting on his most sincere look, he opted for compliments and bribery.

  
"You have an excellent taste in music, Ma'am," he smiled disarmingly. "Dinner's ready."

  
Margo shook her head and handed him the bottle.

  
"Double on rocks, would ya?"

  
She watched as he poured the amber liquid over her favorite Arctic ice and when he stopped, she put a fingertip on the bottleneck and added more. Dean lifted an eyebrow. If the rich girl could down that much scotch and keep her sea legs, he'd give her extra points. He'd only seen Ellen hit the hard stuff with such ease, but Ellen was tough as nails. He was sure Margo was biting off more than she could chew and was not looking forward to the aftermath of such a daring endeavour.

  
"Sit with me, Dean," she said in a strangely hollow voice. "D' you eat?"

  
"Yes, Ma'am," he sat himself cautiosly at a distance from his Mistress. A slave wasn't supposed to sit at the table, that Dean caught early on in training, and he figured he still wasn't out of the woods for playing music, so he didn't trust Margo not to change her mind. But she ate silently, just once complimenting his cooking and chugging whiskey like it was apple juice. When she was done, Dean put the dishes into the sink. She ordered another double scotch which looked more like a tripple to Dean and gestured for the slave to sit himself closer. Margo kept quiet for no less than fifteen minutes before speaking.

  
"Tomorrow's a big day, Dean," there was no indication of inhibriation in her speach, but the dark eyes were fixed on the glass, vacant and empty. "First, we're going to an interview. Then a party. Lifestyle of the rich and the famous."

  
Margo smirked bitterly and looked up at Dean.

  
"They're all gonna be thirsty for my blood and you are going to have to keep them out of my face. Think you can manage?"

  
"Who's they?"

  
"Reporters, papparazzi, y'know, vultures," she waved. Dean knew he shouldn't, but the moment seemed right. Margo was stressed but non-agressive towards him, so he tried his luck a little.

  
"Why would you expect something like that?" he asked quietly and flinched involuntarily when Margo got up. But she didn't hit him or start yelling. She walked to her office and came back with a photograph. Dean took it gingerely and looked at the picture.

  
"Recognize her?" this time nostalgia diluted the bitterness in the woman's voice. Dean hardly did. Between an older richly dressed couple who, Dean sussed from the family resemblance, were Margo's parents, stood a young girl dressed like Sarah Connor in T2. Her dark hair was cropped short, naked arms thrown around her parents were muscular and tanned. Most notably, she looked very happy. Around her neck hung a professional looking photo camera. The family stood in front of a dusty, busted up army Jeep.

  
"Yeah, I don't either," huffed the refinely dressed woman next to him. "But that was me once."

  
"What does it have to do with tomorrow?"  He handed the photo back and maybe that distracted Margo from Dean's improper behaviour. Or maybe she just needed to talk. She wasn't even looking at him when she sat down and submerged into memories.

  
"I was a journalist and a photographer. War, famine, third world issues, human rights violations, that sort of thing. Was good at it too, loved my job. Pink Floyd "On the turning away" kind of deal,"  she sounded distant and lifeless as she approached something deeply painful. "A few years ago me and a friend of mine were working in Africa doing a story on Rwanda when we got a break. Decided to go to Tanzania for a safari...."

  
She swallowed the hard lump in her throat and took a generous sip of whiskey.

  
"One night... we were in this village and I heard a noise outside of my house... I walked out and,um, there was this guy, this one-eyed guy. I saw him the day before and he creeped me out, but I didn't think...."

  
Her hands were shaking now, but no tears clouded Margo's eyes. Dean didn't stir not to scare off this moment of openness. Sometimes, a lifetime ago, John would get into a similar zone. Those were the nights Dean learned all the things his father would otherwise keep to himself, things that seemed utterly important to the boy. It would be useless to ask any other time. You just had to wait until the person was ready to spill the pain themself. And right now the pain kept oozing and dripping, like bad blood from an infected wound.

  
"He attacked me, was the fastest thing I ever saw. And strong, never expected him to be that strong. I fought. I swear to god I fought. And I know how to, I've done self-defense since I was five," Margo looked at him as if he was about to argue. Dean didn't.

"But he was just so strong and fast. He threw me like I was a ragdoll. Broke my arm, my leg. Five ribs. When he was beating me.... All I kept thinking was, hold the punch, don't black out, fight. And then I hit my head so hard, I must have started hallucinating. He must have been wearing something like a long coat, but to me it looked like wings. And he looked like a.... Anyway, when they found me, turned out that he.... I was torn bloody."

  
She gestured vaguely to somewhere below her waist. But there was no need for that, Dean got the idea. They sat quietly awhile, Margo drinking, getting comfortably numb again, and Dean fighting the feelings her story stirred.

  
"Is that why you asked for a slave who...."

  
"Who wasn't brutaly sodomized?" she finished for him when it became evident that he struggled for appropriate words. - Yeah. Got enough on my plate to handle another trauma case.

  
"Guess I owe you," he shrugged and elaborated when she looked at him questioningly. "Thanks to your request they didn't start that kind of training. You literally saved my ass."

  
Margo laughed humourlessly and saluted him with her glass.

  
"Welcome. Anyway, when I got home in that state, barely patched up and batshit crazy, it devastated my family. I was... Let's say I was not willing to make a lot of public appearences. Going back to what I used to do was out of the question. Parents couldn't take it. I hid away, licking my wounds. I was so ashamed too. Y'know, I've been shot at, threatened with a machete, attacked by wild animals. Hell, I've been in zones of active fucking warfare, under artillery fire, air attacks, the works! Nothing. Just shook it off like a wet dog and moved on. The mess I turned into, the weakness - I was so ashamed. And because of me it took such a toll on my parents...."

  
Dean was afraid to move or say something. God, how did Sam do this? This feelings crap. And why was she telling him? They didn't know each other, he wasn't a friend. Why confide in a newly bought slave? Maybe, it was that stranger thing, or maybe Margo's kept her silence for too long, she didn't care whom to spill the pain to. And by the way, his spidey sense was telling him there might be a case here, but he was unwilling to conduct a field interview at this point. He opted for keeping his mouth shut and pouring her some more scotch. Margo sighed and finished her story on a slightly different note.

  
"When some time ago both my parents passed, I took over the empire. No more hiding for me. Now I gotta prove to a bunch of blood-thursty hyenas that I can rule with a steady hand. Every day I've been doing that,"  she looked up at Dean and spoke as if she needed him to understand. "Every day is a fucking struggle. I'm so dumb now, I can barely concentrate. And being in public... Playing in a fucking mascarade.... I think I've put on a good show so far, but it's never enough. They are still looking. One sign of weakness, one step out of place, and they'll tear me down. And take my father's life's work apart piece by piece. Tomorrow is going to be my first extensive interview. Press-conferences, apparently, are not enough to show I'm the top bitch."

  
Dean was a man, brought up in a "man's world", so to speak. And men in that world do not talk to share feelings or bond, they talk to exchange information, usually, the kind which can be followed by action. So when he got exposed to such emotionally charged bit of info, he was lost. What action was he to undertake here? What could he possibly do? This is exactly why he hated it when women cried. He just didn't really know what to do or what was expected of him. But Margo wasn't crying and somehow that made things even worse.

  
Every bit of male instinct in him was telling him to go and kill the fucker who did that to a woman under his, Dean's, care. But he couldn't do it straight away and worse, she wasn't asking that of him. So he probably was meant to comfort her. Dean wanted to comfort Margo, but didn't know if he should or how to go about it. Give him something to punch and he'd be happy to oblige, but throw him into the realm of feelings and Dean flailed helplessly. Still, he knew he should do something, so he tried.

  
"You know what?" Dean spoke up and his tone of voice was far from subservient. "You ain't gotta prove jack squat to anyone. You are tough and you're a fighter. So I know that you can do this thing tomorrow. You just gotta keep swinging. You said it yourself, you've seen shit. After all that, what can any one of those jokers really do to scare you?"

  
Dean stopped and, looking into her surprised face, added a lot more shakily.

  
"And if you feel like you're losing it, just look at me. I'll be there for you. If you want me to. Ma'am,"  he hated how that came out, but had to add something. "And don't worry about anyone getting in your face. I won't let them."

  
Margo took a long look at him and rose. Just as she was about to leave, she put a hand on his shoulder and gave it a light squeeze and a couple of pats. Then she walked out, leaving Dean to do what he willed with everything that's just happened. Dean splashed some whiskey into the glass with a little left-over ice and drank it in one gulp.


	7. Border lines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes sex only makes the situation worse. Especially in a relationship where both parties must stay within certain boundaries .

The last thing Dean expected that night was to be woken up by a quiet call. She stood in the doorway like a woman in white. Before realizing where he is and what he is looking at, Dean startled. Old habits die hard.

  
"Dean, come," she called out again in a voice that did nothing to dissipate the other-worldly feel. But it wasn't an order. Well, it sort of was, but there was something else hidden there, something disturbing. Like a concealed cry for help. Had it been just an order, Dean wouldn't have moved so quickly just after waking up. But that little something he couldn't name immediately wiped away any trace of sleep.

  
Dean got up, hastily tried to smooth out his bed head and followed the woman. Next thing he knew, they were near her bed and she was slipping out of her silk robe. Her skin gleamed almost as white as the silk now pooled at her feet. Dean leaned in and kissed her. And that was exactly what he needed to make this situation feel real.

  
There was a feeling of relief that made everything click into place. He now knew what was required of him, and it was more than sex. She wanted to be comforted, so Dean was gentle and careful not to rush things. He teased just a little, taking liberty and playing with her beautiful breasts . Couldn't help himself. The little sound she made when he tugged her nipples softly with his teeth made his cock twitch. But Dean didn't want her worked up, so he forced himself to tone it down. Methodically, he kissed her pain and unease away, mouthing her skin as he sunk lower until his lips slid over her mound. He felt her body shudder as she shifted for him, breath hitching and speeding up. His hands offered support Dean knew she'd need in a minute.

  
Last thought before Margo'mind short circuited was that he wasn't a trained pleasure slave. So the way he was playing her body now like a musical instrument, the virtuoso manipulations of his fingers and his tongue - that was all talent and experience. That was all Dean at his best for her benefit. And then everything was blacked out by a wave of intense pleasure, building and building relentlessly until her tired mind exploded, erasing herself and the world around her.

  
When she came to, Dean was still kneeling, looking up at her. Margo let go of his disheveled hair she grabbed unwittingly and stumbled backwards, lightheaded and weakened. Next thing she knew, Dean was up and guiding her down on the bed. She barely noticed the pause Dean took to shed the t-shirt and boxers he was still wearing. And then, thankfully, his large muscular body was over her, his hands gliding over her skin, soothing her nerves as she came down from the first high.  
Dean watched Margo's face, listened to her breath, fine tuning himself completely to what her body was telling him. Everything was pure, raw, simple. And when she let him know she was ready, he let the last strings holding him back slip away. His brain spasmed when her tight heat clenched around him and he rolled his hips in that sweet first thrust. It was a masochistic pleasure to force himself under control, resisting the wish to pump violently for quick release. He wanted to savor this - her muscles moving and pulsing around his cock, her gasps, her hungry struggle to keep him in as he pulled out only to slam deeper, harder.

  
Margo obviously knew how to work her inner muscles and as much pleasure it was bringing Dean, it also pushed him closer to his own climax. He's been denied this for so long, needed it so bad, he couldn't last much longer. Barely holding on, he slid his hand between their bodies and started working his thumb over Margo's clit. She came fast and hard, screaming into his shoulder and scratching his back.

  
"Please," he groaned into her lips, inexplicably remembering a slave's courtesy. He may not have been trained yet, but he wasn't ignorant. And he did not want to ruin whatever was going on right now.

  
Wild-eyed from her own orgasm, Margo shifted, and as soon as Dean was out, she gripped his cock tightly, picking a punishing pace as she worked her hand over his shaft.

  
"Come for me, now!" she growled, and he shattered into a million sparks from the insane intensity of the shock ripping through his body. Pleasure so strong it bled into agony. So good, goosebumps ran across his skin. Dean dropped his head into the crook of Margo's neck, panting short moans while his body convulsed, shooting his seed over her belly.

  
A few minutes later, when they both calmed down and Dean started to feel sated sleepiness creeping in, he leaned in for one last kiss and uttered a hoarse "thank you, Mistress". Strangely enough, he was being sincere, he really did feel grateful. For the sex, yes, but also for her trust. For how special it all felt somehow. Maybe he was in trouble, but right then his mind was too blank to know that. Also, the little word he had to keep saying when addressing Margo grounded him to reality, reminding Dean that he wasn't just a man together with a woman he liked.

  
He rolled off the bed and fetched a towel to clean up the mess he made. As he did so, Dean felt a stab in the heart from the thought that this was it, he's done his job and had to leave now. He tossed the towel into the laundry basket and headed for the door when Margo stopped him. She got under the covers and held up the edge of the blanket, inviting Dean in. He did not hesitate to oblige, and when he settled, Margo arranged herself in his arms, smiling peacefully as she drifted off to sleep. Dean was already dead to the world.

  
Next morning she opened her eyes and met with the gaze of two startlingly green gems. Dean woke just a few moments before her, but the sweet leftover satisfaction was already beginning to cloud with a terrible realization that he overslept and breakfast isn't ready. On a day when they had important things planned. Margo was amused how easy it was to read him, but she was feeling generous and calmed him quickly.

  
"At ease, Dean," she ran her fingers over his chest and smiled. "I don't mind you sleeping in today. Now go on, feed me before I bite into this beefcake here."

  
How could a man with such dissolute ways in bed have such a shy smile, Margo wondered. She indulged herself in admiring Dean's ass when he got up, grabbed his clothes and walked out. It was a little after nine, they had plenty of time before the interview. Margo took a moment to evaluate her own state of mind and smiled. She was ready.

  
Dean, having rushed through the morning routine and quickly dressed, was making some french toast for his Mistress when her hands landed softly on his hips and her body pressed into his back. Teasingly, she slid under his t-shirt and felt the relief of his abs. Then one hand sneaked under his belt and Dean had to put extra effort in concentrating on not burning the toast.

  
"Forgot to tell you," Margo purred. "Remember to mow the lawn. And start drinking orange juice. I want you tasting good when I enjoy every bit of you."

  
"Yes, Ma'am," the enthusiasm in that response was so obvious that Margo huffed a laugh before leaving the grinning Dean to his work. After-sex Dean was such a lovely thing, she was afraid of not being able to resist the temptation. Spending the day in bed together, happy, relaxing and having great sex was not in her plans for the day. Pity.

  
They ate breakfast together, as Margo briefed her slave on what was to happen that day.

  
"I want exemplary behavior today. I hope you understand why."

  
"Yes, Ma'am, I do. And I will do my best," he promised.

  
"I'm not expecting anyone to harass us at the studio, but there will be a crowd when we go to the party. Keep in mind, someone might try approach you when I'm not looking," she cautioned. "Might want to get some intel on me or something like that. You have my clear permission to tell them to go fuck themselves. In those exact words."

  
Dean snorted. A slave trash talking a free person with his master's permission, now that'd be something new. But hey, if that's a direct order, he'd find just the right words.

  
Later he found out he'd be off driving duty for the day. Margo ordered a limo to take them to and from everywhere. As much as she hated it, she had to draw attention to herself today. Plus, Dean could concentrate on his more important duties. Margo finished breakfast and retreated to her room to get ready. Dean did the dishes and started on the task of making himself look presentable. For a slave like him an official outfit was a black shirt and pants and shining leather shoes. At first Dean though that all that black would make him look like a priest, but the style of his clothes turned out to be distinctly different from both the priest outfit and the business suits he used to wear.

  
No free man wore such shirts, and even though there was nothing outrageous in the modest strict cut, it annoyed Dean. He reminded himself that a lot of other masters paraded their slaves nude or in trashy sex clothes. He had to appreciate Margo's choice. Take what your master gives you and be grateful, they beat into his skull. Not that that maxima took roots, but those were the rules. And they irritated him. Dean didn't quite feel like digging around in the stirring emotions, so he just straightened his shirt collar and moved to the living room to wait for his Mistress.

  
When she walked out of her room, there was no trace of the woman he saw yesterday or the one he'd spent the night with. She was elegant, cold, a perfect blend of pride and arrogance. Her dark blue-green dress had a simple classic design, which, together with a high collar and a beautiful v-neck, looked both ladylike and glamorous. The stylishly messy updo complemented the outfit perfectly. Dean bowed slightly, keeping his promise to behave, and then spoke out of turn.

  
"You look beautiful, Ma'am."

  
"Thank you, Dean," even her voice changed. Margo approached him and quickly looked him over, making sure all was in order. She fixed his shirt collar to expose the dark grey matte metal encircling his neck.

  
"Don't you look like a million-dollar trooper," she murmured.

  
"Super-duper," - he blurted before thinking. It made Margo smile, breaking up the ice queen look for a brief moment. A fleeting glimpse, over before it even truly showed, but Dean decided it was worth it.

  
The limo ride to Studio City was quiet. Margo was lost deep in thought and it wasn't Dean's place to disturb her. As they approached their destination at the CBS Studio Center, Margo collected herself and glanced at Dean.

  
"Let the games begin," she announced.

  
Dean was out of the car as soon as it stopped, opening the door for his Mistress and giving her a hand, noting to himself the long legs and fetish inducing stilettos that showed first from out of the limo's salon. Margo gracefully rose out of the car and took Dean's arm when he offered it. He was the perfect companion, attentive and respectful, keeping a trained eye on the surroundings, but also on his Mistress, balancing guard duty with the job of a personal slave.

  
Not much was required of him there really. But Dean knew that his shadowy presence, his occasional helping hand was much needed by Margo, even though she acted like the iceberg that sank the Titanic. Time passed as her makeup was fixed a bit for the camera and the crew got ready to shoot. Margo took her place and quietly asked one of the producers to let Dean stand where she could see him. They let him stand close by, but out of everyone's way. Just as they were about to begin, Margo shot a look his way. Meeting his eyes calmed her. A brief memory of going to Sam's school play a lifetime ago raced through Dean's mind, leaving a burning trail. He chastised himself for losing grip and collected himself for Margo's sake.  
Dean didn't know much about the things they talked about concerning business or politics, but felt a little jolt of pride at how Margo handled all the questions with the lazy ease of an apex predator. He couldn't help but feel like he had a small part in her acing this.

  
When the questions got more personal, Dean started to worry a little. He caught a couple of barely noticeable glances from her, but aside from that nothing gave away her discomfort. Of course, Margo didn't spill her guts on national television. Her answers were very diplomatic, with expertly dosed out truth and sincerity. Dean has always had a disdain for politics but had to give it to Margo, she was good at this.

  
The way she played it, Dean had to admit that even he, with his hunter's experience, would have a hard time telling if she was lying. Still, he listened carefully for any valuable information. Didn't really find out anything new, except that no one outside of the family knew what really happened to Margo in and after Africa. People just knew she was badly hurt, nothing else. Careful prodding from the interviewer exposed nothing more than that. It was more important to Margo to present herself as a fit and capable fighter, and as far as Dean could see, she succeeded.

  
They got home a few hours before the party. Margo didn't break character, leaving Dean in order to rest and prepare for the evening. Dean got buzzed in via his collar once to bring her a small snack. The change from the open genuine person from the night before was giving him whiplash, but he stayed true to the game. Hated the buzzing though.

  
When she was finally ready and walked out of her room, Dean's breath caught in his throat. Her floor-length black gown was classic and simple in style. But the way it flowed over her body, hugging and accentuating her curves, was pure sex. Then there was Margo herself, with her panther moves , her aura of sensuality and femme fatale demeanor. A film noir diva off the silver screen. She floated over to Dean and looked up at him through her long thick lashes.

  
"How do I look?" her voice poured like molasses.

  
"Volcanic," he managed and cursed himself for basically quoting Duckie. Margo's dark red lips slowly parted in a smile.

  
"Well then, let's get this show on the road," she murmured as though she was about to kiss him. She didn't, and Dean forcefully dragged himself back into reality. He hated breaking the spell, but reminded himself it was never woven for him to begin with. There's bound to be a bunch of rich free men at that party for her to entice. Her mind ain't exactly Tiffany-twisted and she don't drive a Benz, but the pretty boy friends are a given, right? Those were not happy thoughts and somehow they made it easier for Dean to be prepared to punch some annoying paparazzi.

  
By the time their limo arrived at the place of the venue, Dean was all but chewing at the bit, eager to take his frustration out on someone. And there was a whole bunch of candidates just asking for it. As the sleek vehicle pulled up, a bunch of people with cameras rushed closer, crowding at the passenger door. Dean got out on the other side and cut through the crowd like a hot knife through butter. A towering wall of furious muscle, he didn't even have to do much for people to give him space. But as soon as Margo got out of the car, the human tide rolled closer once more.

  
"Back off," Dean barked. The force of the command itself combined with the shock from the fact that it came out of a slave's mouth pushed the crowd back again. Margo gave them a moment to flash their cameras at her, not even trying to change the look of regal contempt into a friendlier expression. When she started to move, they kept shooting, yelling out their questions. Many were very provocative, some openly insulting to draw attention or get a response fitting the yellow press, yet Margo didn't even flinch.

  
Desperate for some better material a guy with a weaker survival instinct jumped in her way, right up in her face. Some of his colleagues moved in closer as well, following his lead. Margo didn't even get a chance to get alarmed as a dark shape shielded her, slamming itself between her and the guy. Dean. Scary as hell, a pissed off killer, Margo understood on some animal level. So did others. They fell back and Margo was able to walk into the building without any interference. Dean was at her side once again, offering his arm for support. To her deep surprise a strong sense of security took over all of the sudden. She felt safe. She hadn't felt safe for ages. The long-forgotten and deeply craved feeling frightened her.


	8. Sharks and Chardonnay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean is dragged into unfamilliar and very unpleasant waters of high society. He and Margo have to lean on each other to get them through the night, but not without rubbing someone the wrong way. That just has to come back to bite Margo in the behind.  
> Oh, and by the way, we're moving to San Francisco soon. Closer to Stanford. That can't go wrong, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all, who took interest and showed support thus far. The story is mild so far, but trust me, shit will hit the fan as soon as Sam gets involved. I'm just a sadist, who likes the characters to get comfortable before ripping everything away!

The space they entered overwhelmed Dean a little. It's been a long time since he'd been in a crowd. After the slave barracks and the solitude of Margo's home the colorful hustle and bustle, all the lights and commotion seemed surreal. He didn't exactly freeze, but Margo could tell something was wrong. Gently she stroked his forearm in reassuranse and they moved in to mingle.

  
Dean was grateful that as an escort of his Mistress, he didn't have to keep his eyes on the floor. He scanned the room full of public personas - actors, musicians, a few politicians, some businessmen and athletes. In another lifetime Dean might have been excited to see some of these famous people. But this time around his eyes were picking out something entirely different. Slaves.

  
Many were practically naked, clothes replaced by rhinestones, furs, feathers and body art. Some were high as a kite, their eyes shining fevereshly and blown wide or clouded with intensified lust. Decorations, flaunted in a display of wealth. Accessories, paraded in a show of power, following their masters two perfectly measured steps behind. Party favors meant to be used for the masters' amusement. Shame long since removed from their nature as an unaffordable luxury.  
Only a few were dressed as formally as Dean. Others, it seemed, had been stripped of more than just clothes. A famous rapper with a curvy living bling. A rock star with a Santanico Pendomonium of his own. Those somehow fit the pattern. But a middle-aged business man with a barely legal kid dressed like a slave from a "Caligula" orgy didn't just clash. They were making it painfully clear what a slave was expected to do even in public. The night was young though, so no one was fucking anyone yet. But Dean still felt a little sick when it dawned on him, if it weren't for Margo, he could have been one of the poor bastards getting humiliated and raped in public. It wasn't right that whatever dignity he was allowed that night was someone else's choice, but it still meant a lot. He had to admit, albeit begrudgingly, he was grateful.

  
"There's my little savage! Girl, you look ravishing!" a shrill voice tore him out of the nightmarish fantasies. A very well groomed and very fashionable young blonde flung himself at Margo, but Dean managed to intercept him.

  
"Dean, stand down," Margo laughed. "This one's harmless!"

  
"No, no, Margie, baby, let him be. I like it a bit rough," the guy cosied up to Dean, who backed up a bit anxiously from the unexpected enthusiasm and returned to his Mistresse's side. "My, someone knows how to accessorize!"

  
"Careful, Tony,"  Margo warned as they exchanged kisses with the fashion guru.

  
"Oooh, does he bite?" Tony batted his eyelashes at Dean. He would never fess up to it but Dean felt like hiding behind Margo's back. "And the name's Antoine."

  
"Yeah, well, when you stop calling me Margie," Margo slapped Tony's arm playfully and turned to Dean. "Tony is an air-head but a real sweetheart. And a brilliant designer."

 

This inclusion of a slave into a conversation between two free people at a social gathering was not normal, and Dean felt it sharply. Naturally, he appreciated being treated like a real boy, but the situation was wrong and put him in a spotlight, singled him out from the grey mass of slaves present. Dean hated being in the spotlight and the contradictory feelings this brought to the surface. Plus, his owner was very lenient with him today and he sort of knew from experience with others that soon there would be retribution. Every time someone in charge involuntarily showed a bit of kindness or at least temperance he was the one who had to pay for it when they regreted it afterwards. It always, always blew up in his face.

  
"Who are you and what have you done to my Margie? Since when are you this generous?" The young man looked her in the eyes very seriously for a second, then, realising something, pointed an occusing finger at Margo. "You had sex! No, don't you deny it, you're glowing! Alert the media, Margo Savage had sex! And it was good, I can tell!"

  
"Louder, Tony, they didn't hear you in the back," Margo frowned, but not too seriously. She obviously was used to the ways of her friend.

  
"Who was it?" Tony barrelled on. "Was it him? It was, look at him blush! Boy, you deserve a medal! Margie, are you sharing? Don't try to ignite me with your eyes like that, you greedy bitch, I want to look like this too!"

  
"Get your own, Tony," Margo ran a calming hand over Dean's forearm once more. She prayed he had enough sense to know she wouldn't lend him out, but wasn't too firm in that hope.

  
"Would if I could, sweetie, but you know me, all glamour, no gold,"  Tony all but teared up, and just like that went straight back to his cheerful chirping. "That's why I got you, sugar momma. Come, I'll introduce you to someone."

  
They followed Tony through the crowd, Margo taking pause to shake hands and exchange words with some people. They approached a small group of people and Margo sent Dean off to fetch a glass of wine. Breaking away into the swirling mass of designer clothes, expensive suits, sparkling dresses and bare skin, Dean felt very exposed all of the sudden. But no one was paying attention to a slave, so he slid through the crowd to one of the tables with food and drinks.

  
Passing the mountains of delicacies layed out for the guests, Dean managed to steal a few of the tiny canapees and stuff them into his mouth. Definately a faux pas for someone in his position, but since no one caught him Dean figured it was OK. Plus, the food was sinfully delicious, and that made Dean feel completely in the right to steal it. He just got the glass of white wine Margo ordered and was planning on returning to her, when someone grabbed his elbow.

  
"Boy, you came in with Margo Savage, didn't you?"

Dean immediatly pegged the guy as a sleezy douche and glared at the hand holding him. The hand was removed instantly.

  
"Mistress is waiting for me," he coldly answered, no respect for the guy in his words. If this was about the stolen food, he was in trouble. Margo asked him to behave, and he just crossed a line that could embarass her. But a dude who was willing to call attention to such a small thing had to be a dick.

  
"She won't notice if you hang on a little," the guy smiled. Yup, he was definately a douche. "But if you're worried, go. I'll find you later."

  
OK, that was creepy. Dean rolled his eyes when no one could see it and made his way back to Margo. She didn't even acknowledge him when she took the wine from his hand. It was the norm, but still felt like someone dragged nails across a chalk board. He hated standing behind Margo, waiting for orders and feeling like a complete dumbass. Good thing he was also playing the role of a guard dog, so he could look around a little. Not particurlarly entertaining, but better than having to look at his shoes all night.

  
The evening went on and soon Dean discovered what the venue was about. It was a presentation of some book a politician wrote on something Dean percieved as New Agey hippie crap. Very exciting. Gun. Mouth. Now. He wondered how Margo was able to do this shit. Everything was false, pretencious and mind-blowingly dull. The photo of her in military getup came to mind. Sure, she could handle this kind of high-stake balancing act easily enough, but Dean would bet a dollar to a dime she was miserable here. Somehow she too seemed a prisoner forced to perform. And just like him she signed up for it herself. Had it been for greed or vanity, Dean would never symapthize with the woman. But motivation for her misguided actions were loyalty and pain, and he could relate to that.

  
Not one person in the room aside from Dean could get that about her. That thought sort of served as a comfort when one or other young man eyed Margo, or flashed all thirty two pearly whites at her. Their greedy looks annoyed Dean to no end. He had to hand it to Margo, though, their flirting was pointless. He could see the woman was keeping her distance. There wasn't a guy in the room that she could be interested in, Dean gloated. Briefly, he imagined one of these suitors as a guest in their house or as his master. Ugh, what a disgusting notion that was! Taking orders from some stuck-up self-absorbed peacock, knowing that that bastard slept with her.... Why was the latter thought especially upsetting?

  
The hero of the occasion took a moment to deliver a speech, promoting himself, mostly, and asking people to cough it up for a worthy cause. For that part all the slaves were sent to play wall flowers while their masters stood closer to the stage, clapping and smiling. A gorgeous scantly dressed strawberry blonde took place next to Dean. She was on some kind of spanish fly drug, judging by the flushed skin and the way she was moving her body, like she was short of ripping her clothes off from desire. And she was very interested in Dean. On any other given day that would be great, but the situation seemed very, very wrong.

  
"She likes you, boy," the fuckwad from earlier said, casting them a sideway glance. Dean failed to notice it when he crept up on them, distracted by the girl's heaving chest and passionate breathing.

  
"Ain't your boy," Dean strained the words through his teeth.

  
"No, but you're Margo's, aren't you," the dude wasn't phased and nodded at the slave girl. "You could have her, or anything else you want. Money, girls... What is it that you wish for?"

  
"Buddy I ain't buying what you're selling," Dean snorted.

The girl next to him, high as she was, threw a fearful look at the man who Dean pegged to be her master. No slave talked back at a free man like he just did. Yet the guy didn't seem taken aback. He wanted something, that was for sure.

  
"Don't pretend to be loyal, she hasn't owned you long enough. We can figure out an arrangement. I'm not your enemy, boy. I'm just someone who's willing to listen should you be willing to talk," the guy smiled.

  
"What about?"

  
"Oh, anything, really. Anything on Margo there," the guy nodded to where Margo was standing, oblivious to their conversation. "You're her body slave. Maybe you'll overhear something, or see something...."

  
The guy slid a business card into Dean's shirt pocket. Instead of looking at it, Dean gestured for the guy to lean in. The man obliged, a spark of triumph and ravenous anticipation in his eyes. But Dean's words were far, far from what he expected. First the smarmy smile faded, then his face blanched, then red blotches started appearing on his skin. The girl next to Dean was ready to panic.

  
"You insolent little shit!" the guy hissed, pushing the cocky slave away.

  
"Oh, on the contrary," Dean smiled innocently. "I am very obedient. You see, I'm under orders to tell you to go fuck yourself. I think I pretty much nailed that one, don't you?"

  
The man was shaking in rage. A second longer, and he would have struck Dean. There was no way the former hunter would have let him. It was enough that one person had a legal right to do that already. He wasn't going to let this fucker get a freebee. Sure, Dean wouldn't be able to punch his lights out, but there were other ways of defending yourself and making the attacker rethink his intentions. But there was no need to even bother, a far calmer but no less dangerous predator appeared. So Dean stood back and let the free folk sort their shit out.

  
"James Buchanan, don't have the balls to take me on, so you're harassing my slave? Classy!" came Margo's mocking voice. James spun around.

  
"You better keep that thing muzzled, Savage," the guy spat, yanked his poor girl's arm and stormed off.

  
"What the hell did you say to him?" Margo laughed, delighted.

  
"Just following orders, Ma'am," Dean answered humbly and grinned, very pleased with himself. Margo wrapped her arm around his and pressed into his side affectionately. Marking her territory or supporting him, Dean could not tell.

  
"Well, anyway, I figure I've waisted enough time here. We're leaving, - she informed. - Plus, the evening is getting a little too... exhibitionalist for my taste."

  
Dean took a look around and saw what she meant. The official part of the party was over. Performers took the stage - musicians and exotic dancers , moving in unmistacably sexual ways. Some more uninhibited masters called their servants to their side and were fondling the unresisting bodies. Well-trained fake eagerness on the molested slaves' faces. One was already on his knees, nuzzling his master's crotch. Dean did not feel like sticking around to see where all of this was going.

  
The swarm of sensation-hungry reporters was outside, just as before. This time they were bolder, expecting the parting guests to be drunk and more careless. Hiding behind Dean's back, Margo could hear him snarl at the people a couple of times. Once or twice the solid wall of muscle shifted and she saw a person with a camera bounce off and stumble back into the line of scavangers. Then a strong arm wrapped itself around her shoulders and the inside of a limo opened up before her. Margo slipped into its safety. A second later Dean jumped in and the limo took off.

  
Strange how an event like that makes you feel like you've hauled a ton of bricks. Margo was drained completely. Back home they sat on the couch, watching some cheezy old gangster movie. She curled up in Dean's arms, caught in a strange bordering state, too tired to doze off, too exhausted to stay awake. Dean was not sitting comfortably and his leg was falling asleep, but the calming warmth of the woman snuggling up to him, the sweet scent of her hair - it all seemed a fragile illusion. He was afraid to move not to spook it away.

  
"I hate that vanity fair shit," Margo mumbled. "But you did well today, thank you. Buchanan's face after he talked to you was the highlight of my evening. He's been nipping at my heels for a while now, felt good to see him lose his shit like that."

  
Until she said it, Dean didn't realise what exactly had been bugging him. He wanted to know if he'd done well, worried he'd let her down. It was ridiculous, the relief and happiness her praise gave him. It was absurd that he needed it at all, being a seasoned warrior and hunter of supernatural creatures. Everything he was feeling at that moment was stupid, he scolded himself silently.

  
"Happy to serve, Ma'am," Dean grumbled, not even kidding himself that it came out sincere. Margo caught on, but simply laughed.

  
"No, you're not. But I appreciate the effort nonetheless," she sighed. "I need to get away from here. Want to go home. I have some business I've been putting off in San Francisco. I think we'll stay there a little while."

  
First thought to shoot through Dean's sleepy mind was a short connection - San Francisco was less than an hour from Stanford. Sam. He could see Sam. He didn't know how he'd manage it, but the possibility alone.... Second thought made him sick with the irrational fear he hated to admit. Because the most probable means of transport to get from L.A. to San Francisco for Margo would have to be an airplane.

  
"Ma'am?" he called out quietly. Margo made a sleepy noise acknowledging his presence. "Is there a chance I can convince you to let me drive you there?"

  
"Dean, I'm not busting my ass in a five-hour drive just because I have a slave with a fobia," that came out harsher than Margo wanted, especially since she was happy with him earlier today. So her next words carried a hint of kindness and understanding. "I'm sorry."

  
This was very bad. Dean's heart sped up and nausea was rearing up inside. On this short a notice the airline was probably going to be out of tickets for the very few slave seats. Oh god, he'd have to ride in the belly of the plane together witht the luggage. In a container. And what if Margo decided to drug him? A lifetime ago, back when he was free, Dean tried some stuff, self-medicated so to speak. But this would be different, not for pleasure and recreation, not because he wanted or needed it. To be drugged and put into a cage inside a plane.... To lose control over your life entirely.... Dean felt cold sweat misting his skin. Fear sometimes drives a hunted fox to seek shelter in a human's hands. And it was fear that drove Dean to speak up when everything was telling him to stay silent.

  
"Please, Ma'am," his voice was shaky and distorted by the rising panic, attempts to retain dignity completely failing. "Please. If you don't want to drive.... Please don't drug me and put me in a cage. Please let me fly with you."

  
Margo lifted herself to look him in the face, concern obvious in the way she frowned. Whether it was for him, Dean doubted. Probably she worried about the trouble he might stirr up.

  
"Is it that bad?" she asked, stroking his cheek. Dean nodded, squirming on the inside with shame and self-loathing. "Dean, I own a private jet. You will sit where I tell them to seat you. We can get you some meds to help with the motion sickness and the anxiety. I told you I'm not going to treat you like an animal. But we are flying."

  
It was such a bad mistake, Dean thought. What was he hoping would happen? That someone would alter their plans for a slave? He should have known better. He embarassed himself for nothing. He would just have to suck it up like usual. Just had to concentrate on Sam and the hope of getting in touch with his brother. And not plummeting to the ground in a tiny container people thought could defy the laws of physics.

  
The woman in his arms waited for his heartbeat to gradually change from a frightened thumping to a steady beat once more. It was a drum leading her somewhere new and somewhere very familiar at the same time. Somewhere that felt right. Like home. Margo didn't give it much thought. She was slowly slipping into the dark comfort of deep dreamless sleep.


	9. If you're going to San Francisco

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A point of strength for one, a moment of weakness for the other. And since we're in San Francisco now, the ground under their feet will be shaken just when the balance is so fragile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> San Francisco is the city that holds a very special place in my life. And the Chevelle 454 is my love in the world of cars. I just had fun putting them together here ;)

Next couple of days were spent in a sickening anticipation of the flight. Margo, of course, was happy and eager to leave. She packed light, made a ton of calls, but mostly spent her time unwinding after the straineous venue. She took Dean to a drug store and they picked out some meds. Arguing with her was pointless, and Dean cut his losses and accepted as a win that he wasn't going to get roofied and stored in a container like some piece of luggage.

  
On the chosen day Margo forced him to swallow some mild sedatives and anti-motion sickness pills and then dragged her reluctant slave to the airport. She almost kicked him inside the sleek white jet airplane, that's how slow the man was to get in. The interior of the plane was very chique. Leather armchairs, masur birch tables and linings, bouquets of orchids.

  
Margo slid into one of the armchairs and told the pretty flight attendant to put Dean in one of the seats in the rear. She did not hesitate to inform the girl that Dean had a fear of flying and might need some assistance. As if Dean needed more embarassment on this dreadful journey. But the girl, who was a free woman, by the way, was gentle and kind and told Dean to call for her if he needed anything. He'd die before drawing more attention to himself at a moment of weakness, but thanked the nice lady nonetheless.

  
Margo mostly ignored him, having put her headphones on and listening to music for the duration of the flight. She was not going to baby a slave or encourage bad behaviour by acknowledging it. The stewardess, or flight attendant, as Sam once corrected Dean, kept an eye on him. Falling apart under a pretty woman's watchful gaze was not something Dean would allow himself. He whiteknuckled through the best he could, like any self-respecting guy would. The meds helped, even though Dean would deny it vehemently if someone cared to ask. In about an hour the aircraft descended and Dean, trying to hide the fact he was shaking and sweating like a whore in church, evened out his breath.

  
A cab took them to a stunningly beautiful house on the slope of Russian Hill. It was more like a four-floor mansion, really, with Old World elements in its architecture, like stained glass windows and Gothic moldings. They walked in through an iron gate and a stone arch, Margo unlocked the front door and let Dean carry the luggage inside.

  
Dean got to appreciate the view of Alcatraz and the Golden Gate Bridge as he hauled his owner's suitcases up the glorious staircase to her bedroom. Or so he made Margo think, because all the way up his eyes were fixed on her swaying hips right in front of him. Dean loved walking behind beautiful women up the stairs. Yeah, it was an awesome view.

  
The house was obviously meant for a family, and for a time served as a home to the Savages. There was evidence of a family life everywhere here. The large room downstairs had photos of the three members, together and separately. Some things like a collection of knives and a few smoking pipes in the study must have belonged to Margo's father. Antique copper was something Margo's mother used to collect. The garden was also once a favorite project of hers. Wine in the cellar was also something left from her father, who was a connaisseur. Dean learned it from the reluctantly nostalgic Margo, who took him through the well-kept home.

  
Some things, it seemed, she feared to touch, not wanting to scare away the memory of people she still mourned. But there was one thing that was unmistakably Margo's. The garage was small, just accomodating two cars. One was a Range Rover and one was something that sent a shock through Dean's nerves. It stood covered by a tarp, and at first glance its outlines made him think of Baby. Then Margo let him remove the cover and the elegant predatory frame of a '70 Chevelle SS 454 emerged.

  
"Heya, baby, miss me?" Margo ran her hands over the car. "You like him?"

  
"Him?"  Dean raised an eyebrow.

  
"When Chevy released this model, it was dubbed the King of the Streets," Margo explained, loving eyes still on the car. "Haven't driven him in a long time, though. Can you get him road ready for me?"

  
"Yes, Ma'am, just give me a day," Dean nodded eagerly. The nostalgic mood of his Mistress must have transferred to him also, or maybe it was the meds in his blood, because he added:

  
"Used to drive a '67 Impala. When she got totalled by a truck, I rebuilt her myself from the ground up."

  
Margo examined Dean closely. Never before has he divulged any of his past, and she was beginning to get curious. But asking a slave for that kind of info, making yourself care.... That would shorten the distance between them even more, and she was beginning to worry about the damage already done to the border lines between owner and chattle. Margo decided to leave it for now.

  
"Good, consider my car your main project for tomorrow. He was put into storage a while ago. After... Africa I couldn't get behind the wheel without fearing I'd just wrap the car around a lamp post.... I can handle it now, but just couldn't find the time for my King here."

  
"He'll be ready for you in no time, Ma'am," Dean promised, the task suddenly gaining extra importance.

  
Margo took the next day to stroll down memory lane, visiting the Marina district where she grew up, walking among the tea-colored roses that spilled over from behind the fences. Feeding the swans at the Exploratorium park like she did with her mom ages ago. Going to Pier 39 and feeling like a tourist in her own city, yet still so happy to wolf down clam chowder and look at the fat spoiled seals, childhood memories flooding back and filling her heart with a healing golden light. She even took a couple of photographs, remembering she once'd been a pro and loved it.

  
Dean spent his time in the company of royalty, covered in grease and sweat. The house keeper who took care of the place while Margo was absent did a good job, so little else required his immediate attention. And Margo split for most of the day, leaving Dean to tend to the legendary car she used to drive once. It wasn't a hard job, since the car was properly stored, but the spark plugs needed cleaning, fluids changed, fluid filter replaced and the wiring examined. Charging the battery and inflating the tires were the simplest tasks on the list.

  
When all was done, Dean turned the ignition for the first time, revved the engine up and heard the magestic brute roar, he smiled. Margo found him like that - all dirty, gripping the steering wheel of her car and grinning like a Cheshire cat.

  
"So, Cinderella," Margo approached the car and smiled. "How's my favorite boy?"

  
"Ready, willing and able, Ma'am," Dean got out and handed her the key.

  
"Get in, we're taking him for a spin," Margo snatched the keys and pushed Dean to the passenger side, slamming her little backpack into his belly once they were both inside. For the first time in years the Chevelle rolled out of the garage with its true owner behind the wheel. It was like a piece of a puzzle falling into place and completing a picture. Dean wondered if that's the chemistry he had with his Baby and if people in his car felt like he did now - like he was intruding on something intimate and the car and the driver needed to get a room. But it was very satisfying to see the glimpse of that girl from the photo shine through and know that he made it happen.

  
Even though Dean hated riding in the passenger seat, he had to admit Margo knew what she was doing. Not that he'd let her drive the Impala, it was enough she was riding Dean himself, but she was way better with a car than Sam. No riding the brakes or anything. They took a scenic route up to Marin County, Margo grinning ear to ear, singing along to the rock blasting from the speakers and letting herself go.

  
They grabbed some junk food along the way. Margo sneakily shot a few photos of Dean when he wasn't looking, distracted by the task of getting them food. The light was beautiful, just an hour before sunset. Dean's spiky hair a glowing halo, his eyes translucent green like the sea waves, his face relaxed, almost happy and lacking its usual intensity and constant vigilance. Looking at the photos on her camera's screen, she thought that it was too bad she no longer was a photographer, becuse Dean would have been a great muse.

  
They made camp at a viewing point. The sky was already changing into the evening violets and pinks. Margo and Dean sat on the hood of the car and ate their burgers and fries. Dean knew it was a treat for him for having pleased his owner, but that did not take the enjoyment out of the greasy deep fried food.

  
If someone unknowing cast them a casual glance and failed to notice the collar, they wouldn't be able to tell that these two t-shirt and jeans wearing young people were who they truly were - a rich master and an ex-criminal slave. They looked just like a young couple enjoying a California sunset. To some extent that was how both of them were beginning to feel. And they both resisted that dangerous illusion.

  
"So you used to drive an Impala, huh?" finally someone broke the silence. "I can see that. That car would suit you."

  
"Yeah," that's where he should have left it, but something pushed Dean to spill the beans. "It was my dad's. Gave her to my brother when I, uh, left. Wonder if he douched her up."

  
"You got family?" an important question for so many reasons.

  
"Parents died,"  Dean shook his head. "Past couple of years just rode with my brother."

  
"Did you drive a lot?" she steered away from the touchy subject, sensing the rising tension.

  
"Yeah, all over the country. Lived on the road most our lives. Took odd jobs. Never stayed anywhere too long,"  why the fuck was he sharing anything with a person who fucking owned him was beyond Dean. But somehow the words slipped out on their own before his mind could stop it from happenning.

  
"Must have been hard, going from that freedom to this," Margo noted quietly.

  
"Most people used to call our life hard, or lonely, not free," Dean huffed. "They'd say I got lucky."

  
"You forget that I used to live like that. On the road, in remote places. Looking for trouble," she paused and they both stayed quiet for a while. - Wish I could go back there, you know? I don't think I fit in here very well, in this life."

  
"You're free," Dean smirked. "And rich. You can do pretty much whatever you damn please."

  
He regretted the tone and the words immediately. Not that Margo teared up or anything, but the pain that washed over her was palpable.

  
"Yeah, I guess to you my problems seem very superficial," she nodded and Dean winced. "But I can't."

  
God, he himself felt hurt when his dad slapped him with the "Tough, princess!" speech. And he just did that to someone who was hurt. Dean was kicking himself, he of all people should have known better. Worse, the person just accepted it! Right now Dean wished Margo would strike him or yell at him. That would make him feel less like a bastard. But she gave him no such relief. She just accepted it and shut down, because it was her mistake that landed her that blow.

  
"Ma'am, I didn't..." he spoke up, but she cut him off.

  
"No, no, enough. Come on," she slipped off the hood. "Go throw the trash out and we'll head back."

  
The sun set without them. They drove back silently, both feeling disturbed, hurt and guilty. Hurt people just see their own pain. It is easy to discard someone else's suffering because you're not the one feeling it. Because you've got your own shit to deal with. But all of his life Dean managed to recognise a call for help when he heard it. Even when he himself was hurting. What the hell happened now? Dean's guilt was eating away at him like acid - he'd fucked up bad. He did something right and straight afterwards managed to fuck it up completely. Awesome. Nothing left to say 'xept "Fuck!"

  
The next day when they went to see some big shot lawyer friend of Margo's there was a distant coolness between them. Like nothing happened, yet it did. And the goddamn woman was putting on her rich aloof bitch mask, a wall Dean wanted to tear through. It was sick, but he'd feel relieved if she cried. If he could just get her to snap out of it....

  
Feeling like shit distracted him so much, he didn't really take much notice of the law firm they visited, until a corpulant man with an opera tenor's lungs called out:  
"All hail the Queen Margot! Bow, you heathens!"

 

He scooped the laughing Margo in his arms and dragged her to his office past the wide-eyed employees and his bluestocking secretary.

  
Margo barely managed to wave Dean to the couch opposite the secretary's desk, before the booming monster she called Doug dragged her through his office doors. Under the secretary's scrutinous gaze Dean took a seat on the couch. Wasn't his place as a slave, but his Mistress told him to sit there, so he winked at the elderly woman and made himself comfortable. Miss Moneypenny's annoyance was really entertaining. Every time she looked at him he'd blow her a kiss or wink or wiggle his eyebrows in a suggestive manner. It was clearely driving her up the wall and Dean loved every second of it.

  
And then something happened that tore the ground from under Dean's feet. A tall lanky shape flew by with a "Mister Fisher is expecting me!". Air was just knocked out of Dean's lungs. Because he knew that voice. And the hippie mop of hair. And the Sasquatch frame. Sam. It was Sam that just stormed by him without even noticing.


	10. Wham, bam, thank you, Ma'am

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean lies to Sam, then lies to Margo, then gets his ass kicked for it all. Then he gets the hell fucked out of him as Margo claims her territory.

His first instinct after regaining a grip on himself was to skedaddle ASAP. Run like fucking hell. Better have bounty hunters on his ass than letting Sam see him like this. He got up and headed for the door when a school marm's voice yanked him back.

  
"Where do you think you're going, boy?" the secretary was looking at him like he threw up on her shoes. "Sit back down or I will inform Miss Savage of your behaviour."

  
There was no choice. Dean's stomach sank and his heart sped up as he forced his stiff body down onto the couch. He zipped up his canvas jacket so at least his collar would be concealed and waited for the inevitable collision. Never had a muscular 6''1 foot tall guy look so small, pressing into the cussion as if wanting to disappear altogether. Dean stared at the floor, hiding almost half of his face in the collar of his jacket. It was in vain, of course. Fifteen excructiating minutes later the door opened. A young man stepped out and a disbelieving voice asked:

  
"Dean?"

  
Sam had changed. He bulked up, probably going to the gym and jogging like a proper Cali resident. His body was that of an athletic civillian, not a hunter, accustomed to a brawl in a bar or a fight to kill a supernatural monster. He got a little tan too. They used to spend so much time hunting at night, they were pretty pasty. The tan made Sam look healthy. And his hair got longer. He was wearing a cheap suit, like they both used to when they were pretending to be feds. But it was Sam, his goofy, dorky, emo college-boy baby brother. Dean awkwardly rose and gave his brother a crooked timid smile.

  
"Heya, Sammy."

  
And then Sam rushed to him, gripping him in a suffocating embrace. Hugging back as if his life depended on it, Dean did everything to hold back the tears. He managed it well, and when Sam pulled off him, wide-eyed and smiling like a fool, Dean was ready to lie his ass off.

  
"What are you doing here?" a stupid question to ask, but Sam was shocked and it was the first thing that came to mind.

  
"Kinda here with somebody," Dean's eyes shot to the closed office door unintentionally.

 

"Who... Wait, you're with Margo Savage?" Sam's face lengthened. "All of this time I was wondering if you were dead or alive and you've been with Margo Savage?"

  
"Not exactly," Dean was fidgeting now, praying to whoever the fuck was listening that the secretary would keep her goddamn mouth shut. Then a realisation hit Sam.

  
"Is this the case you wrote about in that letter? Is this where that money came from?"

  
"Yes,"  Dean nodded so vigorously, he almost felt dizzy. "But you gotta keep your voice down. This ain't exactly a public affair."

  
"Did it ever cross your mind to let any of us know what happened or that you were at least alive?!" Sam was hissing now, and not because of Dean's request to keep it down. "We were worried sick, we thought you were dead! It was like you dropped off the edge of the world or something! Not even Ash could find a trace!"

  
"Sammy, please, I couldn't and I'm sorry. I'll let you yell at me all you want, but not here," Dean held Sam firmly by the shoulder and gave it a little shake. "Trust me, I had a very good reason. Now, please, can we change the subject?"

  
He gestured with his eyes at the very intently listening secretary. They were both John Winchester's children, and whatever righteous anger Sam felt, he managed to school himself not to let it out in front of an outsider. Dean nodded his approval and let go the breath he'd been holding. God, he'd forgotten how easily Sam blew a fuse. Just like John.

  
"Now, please, tell me, you workin' here? You a big shot lawyer yet? Or did you blow all that dough on shwag, booze and chicks?"

  
"No, no," Sam spoke, calming down. "This is a part of a Supreme Court Clinic...."

  
"Whoa, hold up," Dean was genuinely confused. "Clinic? Thought I was paying for you to become a lawyer..."

  
"It's sort of like an internship," Sam started to explain, but dropped it. "Trust me, Dean, this is a good thing. And you... you... working a case with our boss's friend, huh?"

  
"Yeah," Dean squinted his eyes and inquired. "Why am I getting a feeling you're fanboying over Margo here?"

  
"Are you kidding me?" aaaand wham, Sam was in the geek zone. Dean knew how to play his baby bro, who didn't even notice the elder's shit-eating grin. "Her articles on the Balcans, or the Middle East, or the fate of albino Africans... She was amazing! No one dared say the things she did. And her photographs... Strange, she stopped writing some time ago...."

  
"Yeah, yeah, and all this blabber has nothing to do with her being hot, right? Cool your jets, fan club. Gees, I go away for a while and you're still a geek," Dean teased. "I wouldn't be surprised if you had no girlfriend."

  
"Well, uh, I'm kinda seeing someone, actually," Sam smiled shyly.

  
Dean did a double take. Wow, he did miss out on a lot of things.

  
"Well, look at you," he drawled, grinning proudly. "Who's the girl?"

  
"She's an art history student," Sam was embarassed now, and it warmed Dean's heart. His little brother was finally getting a life after Jessica. "Her name's Sandra."

  
"Is she hot?" Dean bluntly got to the point and it set his brother off, naturally.

 

"Dean!" he whined like he was a kid. 6"4 feet tall and still the little bro Dean took care of all his life.

  
"Come on, I can see you're getting all goo-goo over this chic, she better be hot! I'm serious, Sam!"

  
"Jerk," Sam blurted, rolling his eyes and smiling the "you're unbelievable" smile.

  
"Bitch."

  
And they were still in sync. So much has happened, but the important things were still the same. Like that little exchange. Both brothers were grinning happily, when Mr. Fisher's loud court room orator voice came throught the closed doors. Dean urgently rushed over to the secretary's desk and grabbed a pen and a block of post-its.

  
"Sammy, you gotta do me a solid," his frantic whisper was barely audible as he scribbled. "Check something out for me. Tanzania. Maybe a shifter, maybe a demon, appears as a one-eyed man. Beats the shit out of its victims before raping them. Now, put down a number where I can reach you."

  
"Dean, what the hell? Couldn't you have called Bobby?"

  
"Sam, damn it! Just go with me on this one," Dean tore off his note and shoved it into Sam's pocket. He could already hear Margo's voice. "Number, now!"

  
"OK, OK! What's gotten into you, man?" Sam wrote down his number and Dean snatched it away, looking like they were doing something illeagal.

  
He hastily returned the borrowed pad and pen to the secretary. The woman was glaring daggers at him and was probably going to rat them out, so Dean resorted to his old proven tactic. He amped up his sex vibe to inhumane levels and shot the poor woman an unmistakably bedroom look.

  
"Keep all this our little secret and I'll give you a lap dance," he could see that his outrageous attack just pulled the rug from under the poor old gal's feet. She was gasping like a fish on shore when the two bosses finally exited the office.

  
Margo surveyed the stunned secretary, the deadpanned Dean and the slightly confused and alarmed kid she'd met a few minutes ago. Something was up. Douglas Fisher noticed it too. Except by now Margo knew Dean well enough to be dead sure he was the epicenter of whatever shit-bomb exploded here. Doug's attention was directed elsewhere. Who in his right mind would suspect an innocent looking slave, respectfully standing in attendance of his owner?

  
"You alright, Agness?" he asked the red as beat woman. Agness was gasping for air, all embarassed now, so Fisher poured her a glass of water. Obviously, they've worked together a long time and the boss was worried about his valued employee.

  
"Doug, I gotta go now," Margo excused herself. "I'll see you tomorrow. Take care of yourself, Agness."

  
She walked off, Dean falling into step behind her, when the kid, Sam Winchester, rushed after them, calling out to no one else but her slave. He was asking where he could reach Dean. The older man answered something Margo couldn't quite make out, hands signaling strongly and a bit anxiously. Sam shot them both a weird look and awkwardly said his goodbyes. Dean turned to Margo and ran a hand over his mouth in a gesture she'd learned to be a tell. Oh, someone had a lot of explaining to do.

  
Just before leaving the office building, Margo halted and looked Dean straight in the eye. He could tell she was getting pissed off. And very suspicious. He'd seen that look a thousand times. His father, teachers at school, cops. Nothing good ever followed that look.

  
"You want to tell me what the hell all that was about back there?" she demanded.

  
"What? You mean Agness, Ma'am? She wants me," Dean stated flatly, and damn it if there wasn't a little «Bitch, I'm fabulous» in there. Margo had to give it to him, he was funny. But right now it was a distraction tactic. He was trying to hide something, and that overpowered her desire to smile.

  
"Uh-huh," Margo's look hardened. "Are you cold, Dean?"

  
Oh, crap, the jacket. Dean unzipped the damn thing, showing his collar and t-shirt clad torso, a gesture stangely resembling that of an animal exposing its belly in submission.

  
"It's the A/C back there, Ma'am," he mumbled.

  
"Uh-huh,"  that was all she said, and for the first time since he's been in her posession, he felt like he was really in trouble.

  
At home she marched straight to the living room, sat down in one of the arm chairs and ordered Dean to kneel right before her. The cold, barely contained anger was so easy to read. John with his volatile temper and drunk fits rarely got this way, but when he did, Dean knew it was going to end worse than usual for him. He took extra caution not to provoke Margo, kneeling and lowering his eyes, his predicament all too obvious.

  
"Dean, I want honest answers now," she warned, her tone deceptively calm. "What happened back there?"

  
"Nothing, Ma'am, really! I got bored and teased Agness a little," he tried to sound as repentant as possible. "I'm sorry."

  
"I don't mean your little cougar-hounding adventure, Dean," Margo growled but quickly regained self control. "I mean that boy, Sam Winchester."

  
"What about him, Ma'am?"

  
"Do you know him?" anger was building up and she tried to breathe deeper and slower. Wasn't helping.

  
"No, Ma'am."

  
Before she herself knew what she was doing, Margo leaned over and slapped Dean. Hard. His hand almost flew up to the burning spot on his cheek, but the training kicked in.

  
"Don't insult my intelligence, Dean," she spat out disdainfully. "Who was that kid and what did he want from you?"

  
"I don't know him. He saw me, he liked me, he was looking for a hook up."

  
Another slap, even harder this time. And one more straigh after. 

  
"Fine, fine!" Dean conceded, finalizing a legend. "I used to know him when I was free. Helped him out once or twice. When he saw me, I didn't exactly tell him what I was now. He wanted to keep in touch, but I blew him off."

  
"You hid your collar," Margo stressed. It was a very big no-no, but Dean would rather be punished for that than tell the whole truth.

  
"Yes, Ma'am, I'm sorry," he pulled his shoulders up a bit, waiting for a strike.

  
Margo paused, deciding on something. She got up and ordered Dean to his feet. Pointing to a bare wall on the other side of the room she commanded:

  
"Shirt off, both hands on the wall. And give me your belt."

  
He followed the orders automatically. Pulling off his belt Dean looked at it from a new perspective. It was hard leather, coarse, heavy, thick. It would hurt like a son of a bitch. Only hope was that a pampered woman with small, manicured hands wouldn't be able to pack a decent blow. And wouldn't use the buckle.

  
"Two for Agness, because I don't know exactly what went on there. But you can't take liberties with free people. Five for lying to a free man, five for concealing your collar. Ten for lying to your master," Margo read out the verdict, folding the belt in two and snapping it loudly. "Does that seem fair to you, slave?"  
"Yes, Ma'am, thank you," what a horrible formality to thank someone for beating you. But he did break the rules, so Dean just tried to prepare himself for the coming whipping.

  
"Count," she ordered.

  
When the first lash landed, the pain followed with a delay. It came, preceded by a flush of heat, digging into the flesh, making muscles contract with such force, it intensified the pain. He was wrong about Margo. She could hit with force and technique and she wasn't holding back, her entire body going into the motion. But she didn't split skin or drag the belt when hitting, and a slave had to appreciate that at least.

  
After each planted strike she gave a few moments for his muscles to relax — hitting a tensed up body would have caused more damage. It also didn't allow him to adjust to the pain, each blow standing out, making him suffer anew every time. After five heavy-handed lashes the pain kept growing. Dean couldn't help letting out a couple of grunts, or letting the pain slip through into his countdown, or squirming a little, giving his Mistress another reason to repremand him.

  
By the twentieth lash Dean was quivering and sweating, the skin covering his sore flexing muscles now decorated by angry red stripes. Last two were easier, because this was going to be over soon. Only a couple overlapped and there would be a lot of bruising, but all in all, he'd get over it soon enough. Dean pressed his forehead against the wall and tried to catch his breath. Suddenly, Margo grabbed his ear and dug her nails into the sensitive skin in the back of his auricle.

  
"Have I spoiled you so much that you've completely forgot your training?" she hissed, absolutely furious, pulling him to the floor roughly and presenting the hand still holding the belt for him to kiss in gratitude. He did, the appropriate formula surfacing in his memory.

  
"Thank you, Mistress, for taking time and effort to educate me and put me back in my place!" he all but screamed, his ear feeling like it was getting ripped off. "Please, I'm sorry!"

  
Margo threw the belt on the floor in front of him. She was still very, very angry.

  
"I gave you too much liberty for your own good," she curled her lip in a loathing grimace. "Until tomorrow you will be stripped of all your privelages. No clothes, no speaking until it is explicitely required. No food or water unless I allow. You sleep on the floor. You stay on your knees unless your duties require otherwise or I tell you. Eyes down, head bowed. You are not to leave the house. Am I making myself clear, slave?"

  
Dean bowed his head, keeping his mouth shut and his eyes trained on the floor. She watched him undress, moving stiffly from the whipping. He knelt down, hands clasped behind his back, knees apart, head down. Margo, still angry at him, and now, for some inexplicable reason, at herself, nodded in satisfaction.

  
For the rest of that day, Dean was a silent shadow, a perfect house-trained servant, yet his good behaviour did nothing to put Margo at ease. She did what a good owner would have done days ago. She spoiled Dean and he was getting feral, and that would harm him first and foremost. Discipline was for his own good. She had to stay firm but fair for his sake, or one day he'd get in trouble. Right, then why did she feel like crap? Like she was losing control instead of regaining it?

  
It would have probably made her feel worse, had she known that Dean held no grudge against her for punishing him. First of all, he knew he broke the rules and retribution would follow. Second, over the course of his life Dean has taken a lot of physical and psychological abuse from those he cared about. Expressing your feelings in violent outbursts of physicallity was something of a norm where he grew up, and it was something he understood and accepted. A little belt to the hide, especially justified, was not a deal breaker once Dean gave someone his affection. It would have to be something much worse and less skin-deep. Third, he'd take a lot more for Sam's sake.

  
He could feel the anger still brewing. John and Sam could go on keeping the ambers alive even after an outburst. He'd just have to wait for it to subside naturally and not make it worse. Plus, he'd been given a timeframe of his pennance, and that made it easier to muddle through.

  
The tension had to resolve somehow, so when Margo, who'd been mostly ignoring him so far, stormed into the laundry room where he was loading up the machine, he knew the fury was about to unleash itself. Margo grabbed his collar cruelly and pulled him in for a kiss. He'd been kissed like that by a demon, by a vampire. It was a violation, a branding, a rape of a kiss. Teeth grabbing and pulling his lips so hard, it extorted a whimper. Her lips crashing into his with such hunger and strength, he half expected the coppery taste of blood. Her tongue claiming his mouth with little resistance and fucking into it, demanding complete submission. He didn't fight or resist, just surrendered to it and followed her wishes as she asserted herself over him.

  
When she broke away, her dark unreadable eyes were filled with something so intense, it could almost be called hatered. Dean felt a rush of adrenalin. He'd played rough bedroom games before where the ladies would take the wheel, but this would be different. No safeword, no respect for the partner, no restrictions for the top. No desire to please him. Angry and out of his control. Probably closer to hate-banging. Naturally, there was no issue of concent here, not because Dean liked Margo, but because he belonged to her. There was no such thing as rape in regards to a slave.

  
Without a word Margo grabbed his cock, wrapping her fingers around the shaft so tightly, it almost hurt. She watched as Dean's irises blew wide, eyes now being two solar eclipses with emerald coronas. Green eyes never could hide the truth, she smirked to herself. She lead him to the nearest bedroom, and being lead around by his dick wasn't exactly what Dean had previously experienced. He was afraid any moment she'd yank him too hard. Very unnerving, yet his heart rate was speeding up for more reasons than that.

  
Margo brought him up to the bed and let go. Then pushed him hard, commanding Dean to lie down. He did and stayed still while she undressed, looking at the ceiling and licking his lips in anxiety and anticipation. She straddled him, grabbed both his wrists and placed them above his head.

  
"Move your hands, and you'll regret it."

  
He uttered no sound, remembering the rules for today, but made a move to mouth the plump breasts held above his face, nipples already hard as little pebbles. How could a red-blooded man resist reaching for such fruit? Margo allowed him to please her, moaning in satisfaction, but stopping this little foreplay before Dean could feel he was in control. She slid down, rubbing her body against him, bending her spine like a cat.

  
"I want to hear you scream tonight," she dragged a finger across his bottom lip and let him catch it, licking with just the tip of his tongue. "Whether from pain or pleasure, I don't care."

  
She slid further down and pushed his thighs apart, making him completely accessable for whatever she had planned. Whatever she was about to do, he wasn't kidding himself, would be for her own enjoyment only. If he was to get any pleasure, it would be because it was fun for her, not because she wanted to make him feel good.

  
Margo teased him with light electrifying touches, strategically planted kisses and licks, setting his nerves on edge all the while ignoring his cock completely. By now it was crying for attention, fully erect, jerking with eagerness. Dean wanted to beg, was ready to do it as soon as he was allowed, words of a slave's prayer ready to slip out. But no such command came. He was biting his lips and squirming, aching for more, but couldn't do anything about it.

  
When she sucked one of his balls into her mouth, he gasped from the unexpected sensation. All feeling he had in his body concentrated in one spot. He couldn't even feel his cock any more. The sounds Dean was making were sweet music to Margo's ear. She made sure he was fully taken over by what her mouth was doing to his scrotum before just as suddenly switching attention and sucking in the tip of his cock. No other touch or sensation except that and Dean lost any understanding of how long his own cock was.

  
Dean's moans and sharp intakes of breath spurred Margo on, and soon he was whimpering, sobbing and sounding like a complete whore. He didn't care, the combined motion of her hands and mouth provided continuous stimulation, her tongue running over the most sensitive parts in everchanging ways, and he was losing his mind from the roller-coaster effect of it all. She wasn't gentle at all, using her teeth and nails to add spice to it all, gloating at the way pain and pleasure were driving Dean crazy. The last straw was when Margo swallowed him entirely and then drew up, mouth open, taking a deep breath. Just when the cold stung the head of Dean's cock, Margo exhaled. The hot air hit the head and the contrast just blew Dean away.

  
But he wasn't allowed to come. Dean didn't even have to struggle to hold himself back. Margo was in complete control, like a torturer, knowing exactly when and where to press or pull to stop him or slow him down. Three times he was almost ready and was reigned in steadily before Margo had had her fun. With an expert move she rolled a condom over his dick in one swift motion. After that she straddled him and in a no nonsense style started riding him like a bronc.

  
Dean has had a lot of women. Some did Kegel and some were bendy, and they added something new to the experience. Margo made him rethink everything he knew about female anatomy. Because he never knew a woman's body could do such things. He even looked at her in disbelief once, and she was moving beautifully, like a belly dancer. Hips twisting, rising and falling, sliding back and forth, her flat stomach moving in waves and chest lifting and dropping as she moved her diaphragm. It was facinating, like an exotic porn film fantasy come to life, and god knows Dean had a lot of those. But even when she seemed to stay still, Dean could feel the muscles inside her gripping, rolling, pulling and pushing and even slamming his cockhead.

  
Tight, hot, moving like he never felt a woman move. It was absolutely mind-blowing. He was drunk on the experience and thirsting for more. It was even scary, because somewhere in the tiny part of his brain that was still active, alarms were going off. His subconscious was freaking out over a new heroin-like addiction forming, while his body carelessly gave into the pleasure.

  
Margo herself had trained her sensitivity to a level where she could feel every vein on his beautiful ten-inch dick, the sensation when she clenched around him shooting through her entire body, forcing an animlistic cry from her throat. First time she came, she dragged her nails over Dean's chest and dug them into his sides. His yelp and squirming from the stabs just adding to Margo's pleasure while pushing his climax back. He threw his head back but Margo grabbed his face.  
The ride he got after that was simpler, but rougher. Repetitive motion, increasing in speed and force steadily to build up his orgazm. Margo pushed two fingers into Dean's mouth and pumped them in and out as he obediently sucked on them with surprising eagerness.

  
"Good boy," she murmured, taking her hand away from his mouth and sliding it between her folds to sync her second climax with Dean's. He was balancing on a knife's edge when she decided they were both ready. Margo grabbed his nipples and twisted. The sweet pain melded with pleasure as Dean fell over the edge, vision blacking out, oblivious to his own scream.

  
He came to, panting like he'd run a marathon, chest heaving, body exhausted and completely spent. Margo looked down at him, a victorious smirk on her flushed face, and then just slipped away and left. Dean secretly loved cuddling and aftercare, it gave him a taste of the gentle contact his life generally lacked. To be so blatantly used and discarded afterwards almost hurt, creating a terrible need in him, a longing he'd chase after again and again to restore balance. Margo knew what she was doing every step of the way in that little battle. He lost himself to her even if that thought hadn't yet reached his blank conscious. Too worn out to fight it, Dean's mind surrendered. Yeah. Fun times.


	11. The error of our ways

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An argument where everyone has their own truth but no one is right gets out of hand. It's a downward slope from here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not Sam's finest hour, but if you remember the fantastically played argument at the end of S03E01, Sam did sound (at least to me) childish and self-absorbed a bit then. Granted, he was hurting and upset, but that's what he sounded like to me. Here I kept the exchange quite close to that.  
> The period of my story corresponds with Seasons 3-5 (with some obvious parallels to the original events), and Sam still had a lot of growing up to do then.  
> If you are a Sam fan who believes Winchester-younger to be pure and infallible, here's a fair warning ;)

It was a low blow from life itself. And he was used to them by now, but still had to get that «Seriously?!» feeling. The day didn't start out too bad either. His back didn't bother him much, because, come on, he's handled far worse. He was fucked out and relaxed, still riding the leftover high from yesterday. Things were almost back to normal otherwise. Margo was having the Fisher guy over, but not a lot was required from Dean, no formal wear or three-course feast. Just wearing regular casual clothes and serving drinks. Simple enough, one should have expected. Well, when that one was Dean, he really should have known better.

 

The bell rang and Dean hastily opened the door to let the guest in. He was bowing, not seeing the faces of the two men who entered, but there really was no need. He'd have recognized his brother by footsteps alone. Dean winced and silently cursed, stomach sinking again, just like yesterday. There was no fucking way Sam would not see exactly what Dean was now. Dean avoided looking at his brother, leading the guests to the living room.

 

"Mistress will be with you in a minute," he spoke, words tangling up and difficult to form. "Would you like something to drink while you wait, sirs?"

 

Dean nodded at Fisher's order for cucumber water with mint and lime and finally looked at Sam. And there it was. The shock and grief from this discovery left a stunned, almost child-like look on Sam's face. Like Dean ran over his puppy or something. Dean wished to god he could at least say something to make his brother feel better, but that was not an option. So they just stared at each other, pain and sorrow streaming between two brothers.

 

"Sam, my boy, are you all right?" Douglas Fisher noticed Sam's freezing and broke the silence.

 

"Uh, yes, yes, everything's fine," Sam snapped out of his trance. "Just some ice water please."

 

"Sparkling or flat, sir?" this was beyond weird. Dean remembered a time not so long ago when he'd just grab a couple of beers out of the fridge and hand one to Sam. Sam wouldn't even need to ask. Now Sam had to use his older brother and caretaker as a waiter and the look on his face was tearing Dean's heart out.

 

"Sparkling, please,"  the poor kid managed and Dean quickly retreated.

 

He brought the drinks and chose a spot in the room where the two guests couldn't see him, but he'd know if he was needed. Dean didn't want Sam staring at him, but neither did he want Fisher to notice him, because the man would expect a slave to be kneeling. Dean didn't want to kneel in front of Sam and cause his brother more distress.

 

"Doug, thanks for coming," Margo swooped in, all happy and glowing. Dean's brain instantly attributed that to their roll in the hay, but he had other things to focus on.

 

"Margret, you remember Sam Winchester," Doug said after kissing Margo on the cheek. "He's the one who did the research on your little issue, so I brought him over. I'm sorry I didn't warn you."

 

"Quite all right. Welcome, Mr.Winchester," Margo cast Sam a beautiful warm smile.

 

Sam responded awkwardly, Dean noticed, and did not look too friendly. «No, no, Sammy, don't start now», - Dean grumbled in frustration to himself. The thought of Sam stirring up trouble over him made Dean uncomfortable to say the least. And Sam would go on a rampage, the kid was capable of it, too. Dean wanted to handle it quietly, without drawing too much attention to himself or his brother.

 

All three retired to Margo's study to hold council over whatever affairs needed settling. Dean, naturally, was not invited and that was a good thing. Feeling Sam's eyes drilling his skull was already getting on the elder brother's nerves. He needed a few minutes to himself to get his shit together. About an hour later his collar buzzed, leaving a gross tickling in his throat. Dean was summoned to make coffee for Margo and the guests. It was sort of funny how he knew what both Margo and Sam would ask for before they even voiced it.

 

He was in the kitchen when Sam walked in. Looking up at his kid brother, Dean faked a nonchalant expression. No need to say anything, Sam would most probably have a few things to start with.

 

"What the hell happened, Dean?" Sammy's voice was broken, like he had a lump in his throat.

 

"Got busted on B&E. St.Louis caught up with me," the older man shrugged. "Along with Milwaukee and a few other things."

 

"So? That doesn't explain why you have a collar on you like a freaking dog!" Sam accused. "You could have gotten away, Dean. We have before!"

 

"Not this time, Sam," Dean frowned. "You were at Stanford, they knew that. They were going to drag you down with me. Couldn't have that. I made a deal. Clean slate for both of us and a little extra for you."

 

Dean never mentioned that Sam could have used an alias when getting back into Stanford, and not abuse the fact that he wasn't on the FBI's wanted list like his brother. That even though there was no substantial evidence linking Sam to any crimes Dean was accused of, he still busted out of Folsom with Dean and one day the law was bound to come a’knocking. Sam set himself up for trouble and sooner or later his big brother would have had to yank his ass out of the fire anyway. Dean didn't sound a word of any of it, laying not even an ounce of blame on Sam's shoulders.

 

"You made a deal," Sam tightened his lips into a thin line and shook his head. He tried to use Dean's past wounds and his inability to do anything to hurt his little brother. "Did you ever think how I would feel knowing my brother sold himself into slavery for me? How did you feel when Dad made his deal for you, huh, Dean? Remember that?"

 

"Come on, it's not the same!" Dean huffed, waving that notion off. "I wasn't in Hell, and Margo isn't a demon. Soon as I figure how to get this thing off, I'm gone. Would've been harder to split from inside the supermax Henriksen promised. I'm alive, I got my health. It's all good."

 

"All good?" Sam was getting very worked up now. "My brother is reduced to someone's private property and you're telling me it's all good? What the hell is wrong with you? You even hear yourself?"

 

"I'm telling you that I found a way for you to go to school and start the normal life you wanted!" Dean snapped. "I'm telling you I got the cops off our back. And scored some cash doing it too. So yeah, to me it's a good thing, because now I know that you can go on and be a real boy."

 

"When were you going to tell me?" Silence. "Were you ever going to tell me, Dean?"

 

"I was. I just needed to find a way to contact you without Margo noticing."

 

"We could have worked a way out for you, Dean. You could have called me when they arrested you," Sam spoke quietly.

 

"What for, Sam? What would you have done? You were out of the life, draggin' you in the second time didn't seem right. You had a chance. Wasn't that what you said to me after we killed Azazel?"

  
"You're my brother, Dean," Sam sighed, frustrated. "Jesus, if you'd've just told me..."

  
"The less attention you got, the better," Dean was not giving an inch on the issue. He had no doubt he was right and when that happened there was no force on earth that could move Dean. "You have your school, and your big-shot lawyer future. I can't let you fuck it all up. You're the one who can actually pull that shit off. I'm a grunt, always have been. All that apple-pie, white picket fence was never my thing anyway. And for the first time in a long time I'm not worried about you. I feel good."

 

The younger man stood there, defeated by his brother's careless attitude towards himself. And yet there was anger in Sam too, a lot of anger. And it felt so righteous, so overwhelming, that he stopped caring that he was really being selfish. He needed to vent his frustration, his pain and fear for Dean so bad, for an instant he stopped worrying about hurting someone else.

 

"I'm a big boy, I can take care of myself. I didn't need you to pull a stunt like this. You know, you make it sound like you did this for me, but you really did it for yourself, Dean," the words were hurtful and poisonous. Yet Dean seemed unfazed.

 

"Fine. Whatever," he dismissed the accusation. "I've taken a lot of shit for this family, so I figure I'm entitled."

 

The last phrase was not something Sam was accustomed to hearing from Dean. In fact, it was the first time his brother, - who'd been the family's devoted soldier, who would always take any abuse their father or even Sam himself unleashed on him and just carry on like it was nothing — actually stood up for himself. Sam was so used to being able to manipulate Dean, like a child manipulating his exhausted parent, that this resistance made him lose inner balance. Sam sank onto one of the bar-stools at the kitchen table and hid his face behind his palms.

 

"Maybe we can still do something," he finally spoke. "Buy you out, brake you out. Convince her to free you. Anything. I will call Bobby as soon as I leave here."

 

"Just as long as no one goes back on the dealand you are off the cops' radar. Speaking of Bobby, did you get that info I asked for?" Dean casually inquired, placing a cup of coffee he'd made for Sam in yet another unconscious attempt to comfort his brother.

 

"Jesus, Dean! You're unbelievable!" Sam exploded, waving his arm and knocking the cup off the table. Dean went down with a rag to clean up the mess with a reproaching «Dammit, Sammy, I just cleaned in here!», but his clumsy moose of a brother kept yapping exasperatedly. "I find out my brother sold himself for me and you're talking about some African monster?"

 

"Yeah, Dean, what's up with that?" came a deceivingly light-toned question from behind both their backs.

 

Dean cursed under breath and turned around slowly. Margo was standing just beyond the kitchen, judging by the tilt of her head and the unconcealed rage on her face, she's heard a lot. Crap, she wasn't wearing heals, so he didn't hear her come in, but he and Sam got pretty careless, arguing like they were alone in the house. They must have lost track of time and she's come down to find out what was up. God, he and Sam had both gotten rusty, being in this civilian life too long.

 

"So, your name used to be Dean Winchester," she drew out slowly, moving in on Dean as if stalking her prey. "Good name. And why, pray tell, you failed to mention that yesterday during our little heart to heart?"

 

Sam was outraged. He looked at Dean and saw his brother draw back, wide-eyed and silent, offering no resistance. Just like when their father would tell Dean off before punishing him. And it drove Sam crazy. He'd chewed Dean's ass off a million times for taking Dad's crap. And now here Dean was, staring at this stranger like a rabbit at a snake, and taking abuse again!

 

"Miss Savage, he thought he was protecting me," Sam's words were meant to sound placating, but his anger slipped through, making it all sound like a threat or a command to back off. He stood towering over Margo, the difference between his 6''4 and her 5''9 all too obvious. But Margo wasn't lying when she said she'd been in some tight spots in her life. She was not intimidated by the giant before her and sure as hell wouldn't take crap from him under her own roof. And to say she was pissed off would be a gross understatement. She looked at Sam, shoulders squared and head held proudly. Dean never thought someone could actually look down at his brother while standing next to him, but there it was and it had nothing to do with height.

 

"Mister Winchester, you better leave my house now or I'm calling the police," Margo gritted through her teeth. "And if I ever see you near me or him again, a restraining order will be the least of your problems."

 

She turned to Dean and her tone changed, she would no longer bother containing her rage.

 

"And you," she glared at Dean, who actually felt like shrinking. He never did well when women turned aggro with him, he'd always back off and walk away. This time there was nowhere to go. "You lie to me about your brother, that I can understand. I will skin you for it, but I can understand. But how dare you! How dare you talk about Africa with anybody!"

 

Margo always believed that raising your voice gave away your weakness. Only those who are hurt and weakened resort to shouting. Not that they should be despised for it, for hurting and needing help, but it was a tell she always picked up in others and avoided herself. However right now the pain of Dean having disclosed information about her to someone, betraying her fragile confidence in him... it was unbearable. All consuming. Blinding.

 

"I trusted you! I thought I could rely on you and you just blab about it over coffee?!" She yelled without even realizing it, and her next words came out ragged, like a growl. "You fucked up big this time."

 

There was devastating pain of betrayal in her voice, Dean could hear it, but Sam, of course, could not. All he saw was her aggression towards his brother, so when Margo reached for the control on her wrist, all Sam knew was that Dean was about to get hurt. He grabbed the woman's wrist and yanked her hand away from the device, screaming at her himself. Margo lost her balance.

 

The thing about sandals is that more often than not their soles have no traction with the floor. Many a times women in flimsy but pretty summer footwear slip on polished surfaces of the stone tiles. And when those tiles are wet from, say, spilled coffee, well that's just an accident waiting to happen.

 

Last thing Margo saw before her head connected with the floor with an immense blunt force were Dean's green eyes, wide with fear for her as he tried and failed to reach her before she fell. Then everything went black.


	12. Are we having fun yet?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean begins his time at a correctional facility. He is not making it easy on himself.

Conciousness was comming back in flashes of recent events. Margo's blood on his hands. Him screaming at Sam to call 911. Him barking at Sam to shut up, that he'd take care of it. Him frantically yelling at Douglas Fisher that this was all his, Dean's, fault. Fisher falling to his knees next to Margo and pushing Dean away. Fisher reaching for her wrist. Sharp paralyzing pain tearing through Dean. Blackout.

  
Dean came to on a cold floor of what felt like a moving vehicle. He could immediately tell that he was naked and shackled. The impenitrable darkness around him, he realised, was actually a black hood tied up around his neck. Dean's neck and upper back hurt like hell after the crushing electric shock he'd suffered, muscles tense, sore and stiff. He moved around a bit in an attempt to get up. Useless. The shackles were connected to a ring in the floor, so he could barely get to his knees. But by the erratic way the van was moving Dean could tell he was being given the rough ride. The chains actually saved him from flying all over the place, but the constant loss of balance was nonetheless difficult to endure. It was safer to stay down.

  
When the van stopped and the doors opened, several hands unceremoniously grabbed him, manhandling the stunned slave out of the vehicle. Dean was a trained warrior, even chained up he could throw a couple of solid punches. He would not be lead away like a sheep to slaughter. The hood around his head was not enough to stop him either. He could hear them, feel them move around him, his bare skin sensitive to changes in the air currents and the occasional brushes of fabric. That was enough to give an experienced fighter an idea where to strike.

  
All things considered, he couldn't do too much damage, but he did manage to drive his elbow into one of the handlers' stomach. Feeling someone behind him, Dean threw his head back and slammed it into someone's nose. The handlers broke off after that, disorienting him. Then another terrible jolt of electricity hit and his systems collapsed from shock. He blacked out again.

  
Next time he was ripped from out the deep nothingness by icy water, brutally beating his body, bruising him, knocking air out of his lungs and not letting him draw new breaths properly. Dean gasped, only to realise with terror that the wet hood was sticking to his face, barely letting him inhale. Lacking sufficient air, Dean started jerking instinctively, attempting to somehow remove the damn smothering fabric. That was when he found out that he was strung up, toes barely reaching the floor. The metal cuffs dug into the strained flesh of his wrists, and Dean could feel the skin breaking from his thrashing.

  
Somebody finally turned the hose off. Dean could hear booted feet splash in the water pooled on the floor from his shower. Someone approached him. Just one man, as far as he could tell. There was a pause, a quiet before the storm. And then a sharp stinging pain sliced into his back again and again and again, new blows landing on top of those still fresh from the belting. Unending succession of strikes felt more like some animal was tearing his back up with its claws. Strung up and stretched out Dean could do nothing to get away, still he twisted in his bonds, metal cuffs chewing into his wrists.

  
No one spoke to him, no one demanded anything. Not even an insult thrown his way. Just a whipping to show him exactly what he was and where his place was. Dean was panting, struggling for air, but the wet black fabric on his head was so thick, he could hardly get any. He was suffocating. His lungs were beginning to burn as his chest heaved heavily but almost uselessely. A little while longer and he'd pass out. His body stopped resisting the whipping and sagged in it's restraints. Dean could feel his arms being pulled out of their sockets, but could hardly do anything to help himself.

  
Apparently, his torturer noticed the slump of the slave's body, because the whipping stopped. A steady hand grabbed the string around his neck, untied the knot and tore the hood off. Dean gasped for air ravenously, squinting his eyes from the bright light filling the room. The space with grey walls and cement floor was mostly empty. Except for the rack. And the padded bench. And the cross. And the table with instruments Dean couldn't see but was sure to be torture devices.  
In front of the prisoner stood a man in his forties with a bony sharp face, watery-pale eyes and ruddish, somewhat scarce hair. He was wearing a uniform unlike Dean's ever seen, but very similar to what the overseers in Nevada used to wear. He was holding a rattan cane. So that's what hurt so bad. Dean was in deep shit. The first thing this man did was punch him in the face.

  
"Eyes down, slave," his voice was grating and he barely separated his thin lips when speaking. He moved a little to the side to be able to whip Dean's back yet still see the tortured man's face. "Do you know where you are?"

  
"What, this ain't Disney Land?" Dean answered and a second later the rattan cane slashed across his raw strained back.

  
"You will answer respectfully and add "master" every time you speak to me, is that understood?" the man asked in a very leveled cool tone.

  
"Whatever rocks your boat, man," Dean clenched his jaw from the sharp pain. But there was a rebelious side to him that made itself known at very inappropriate times. This time it made the wrong words slip out of his mouth. "But you ain't my master."

  
"Do you know why you are here?" it was suspicious that his last comment did not land him half a dozen new strikes.

  
"Because this is the only way you can get a date?" he must have had a deathwish or something, but whatever brakes he had, failed. Dean just couldn't stop. "Sorry, pal, I don't swing that way."

  
"It's because you killed your master," the man provided right after another lash burned white hot across the slave's back.

  
"Bullshit," after that the man gripped Dean's face painfully and drew closer.

  
"You callin' me a liar, boy?" he hissed.

  
"What are you, deaf and stupid? I'm telling you you're full of it,"  Dean struggled to speak with someone else's fingers digging into his jaw like iron nails. "You ain't a cop, this ain't a jail. Margo's alive. Sir."

  
"Think you're so smart, you punk? Well, let me tell you, if you were smart, you'd know when to shut up." The man stepped away and smiled ominously. "I'm going to have a lot of fun beating all this sass out of you, boy."

  
"Kinky son of a bitch," Dean batted his eyelashes in a mock flirt. Or at least tried.

  
The whipping that followed was brutal. The rattan cane sent sharp agonizing pain through Dean's flesh, landing over the fresh sores. Then it broke. Another was taken up and the beating resumed. Once again the lashes blended up together into an endless stream, tearing Dean's outstretched body. He tried to hold back the scream, but couldn't. When the trainer was satisfied, the beating stopped and Dean was left panting.

  
"Now, say "thank you, Master Edgar","  the man demanded.

  
"Sorry, dude, I already got one master, and she's a lot more fun than you." Dean just didn't know when to quit. "Speaking of, where is she?"

  
A new series of lashes rained on his poor suffering back until Dean was jerking and twisting in his bonds and screaming once again. Something was trickling down his back and he couldn't tell if it was sweat or blood. But he was the son of a Viet vet US Marine. He was one of the best supernatural hunters out there. He'd die before giving in to this motherfucker.

  
"Let's start over, shall we?" the trainer suggested. "Do you know the rules, slave?"

  
"Yes, sir."

  
"Then you know why you have no clothes."

  
"Because you are a perv, sir."

  
Another beating later Dean could barely muster up strength to speak but still managed to shoot his mouth off.

  
"Anyone ever tell you you have a strange way of showing your affection?" his voice was hoarse from suffering, but he kept on trash talking his torturer. The trainer seemed unfazed though. Some slaves begged and cried, some spewed profanities and curses. This one was pretending to be a tough guy, but that wasn't a big deal. Tough guys broke too. Spectacularly so.

  
Edgar moved over to the wall and pulled a lever Dean failed to notice earlier. The chains stringing the slave up were released and Dean dropped to the floor gracelessly, like a sack of potatoes. He uttered a pained sound that resembled a humourless laugh from the aching in his shoulders and tried to lean on his numb arms to get up. Pain was everywhere and he felt weak with exhaustion. He wanted to fight, but it would have been an attempt doomed to fail even before he tried to slug his torturer. Meanwhile the trainer calmly approached the struggling slave and rearranged the chains. Now there was a line linking the cuffs on Dean's ankles with those on his wrists and leading up to his collar. The chain was short, and Dean found that out when he was forced to his feet. He could only stand in a half-bowing position, just able to make tiny shuffling steps and do almost nothing with his hands. Or he could kneel. He was almost happy to get down on his knees and relieve his raw back.

  
"You seem to have forgotten your place, boy," the trainer's tone of voice was conversational. "So for the next four hours you will wear something special to remind you what you are."

  
When Dean saw the device he leaned away instinctively.

  
"Now, boy, you behave or I will knock you out again," his torturer warned. "This goes on either way."

  
Dean stilled, eyes fixed on the solid block of metal in the man's hands. It was a monstrous collar, weighing no less than 20 lbs. Maybe more, if the trainers struggle to hold it was anything to go by. The man placed it above Dean's shock collar and locked it in place. As soon as the trainer's hands were removed the metal crushed Dean's original collar down into his flesh. The giant thing was difficult to balance, threatenning to tip him over if he wasn't careful. In his weakened state that was an actual possibility. The only way to more or less hold it steadily was in the perfect «slave kneeling attentively» pose. It required straight back and shoulders which for Dean right now was torture.

  
"Ah, smart boy, you get the point," the trainer praised him when Dean assumed the position. The look Dean threw him could probably burn through concrete. "Keep it up for the next four hours. And don't think of falling. You will be punished."

  
Four hours on his knees, the weight around his neck crushing his spine, the ripped flesh of his back burning, sweat stinging the fresh cuts. Constant attention to every shift of the weight that threatened to tip the fragile balance. By the end of the punishment the only thing keeping Dean up was his stubborness.

  
When the collar was removed, Dean tried to stretch his sore body. Numbness in his legs was replaced with angry pain in his knees as he was forced up. His elbows were pulled behind his back and a pole was driven through the bends of his arms. The chain of the handcuffs dug into his belly. The trainer yanked the pole upwards and Dean barely held back the pained grunt. This was how he was to be lead around from now on.

  
The cell he was left in was completely dark. And silent. In fact, Dean has never been in such a deafiningly silent place. He touched the walls and felt some kind of padding. Whatever sound entered this space was consumed by the dark nothingness. He was left in this non-exhistance alone with his pain and thirst and later, hunger. He was told this would teach him he only exhisted through the master's wishes.

  
It went on for what felt like ages. He drifted in the silent darkness, consumed by pain, not able to find a good position due to the way he was chained. Constantly thirsty, hungry and cold. Here he could not tell if he was awake or asleep. If he was even real. All sence of time was lost, he'd be dragged into the light at different intervals. Light was not good. Light hurt his eyes and only promised more pain. But silent darkness didn't mean respite or peace, as he first thought. It meant madness. And helplessness. Soon Dean couldn't tell which was worse. He fought the madness by remembering songs he loved and spilling their words into the emptiness. He fought the handler with snark and sass. But as fatigue settled in more and more Dean, to his terror, noticed that his fight was weaker and weaker. His physical strength was wearing away and most of the time his mind felt either like a cloud of fuzz or like marbles spilled across the floor. He did his best to hide it, but his inner system was sounding off alarm. He might not be able to keep up the fight for much longer, especially since he now had to fight his own weariness and weakness.

  
The sessions were pretty similar to each other. He was beaten. By floggers, whips, canes, fists, feet, whatever was the chef's special today. Soon he had whip marks not only on his back, but all across his sides, ass and thighs. Bruises of all colors bloomed everywhere on his body. He was tortured. Electrocution, the rack, waterboarding. The classics. One time he pissed his handler off so much with his trolling that he was hung by the neck and whipped while choking in the noose.  
Sometimes, when he needed a little time for the wounds to heal, they'd switch to other means of conditioning him. They force fed him salted food and left him to go so mad with the growing thirst that he banged his forehead with his cuffs. To add to the frustration water would be placed just out of reach or poured to the floor before his eyes. After a few times he tried to lap some of it up, but it yeilded little results. Dean decided to resist such urges from now on. And whenever he'd get hosed down with that ice cold bruising stream of water, he'd drink until it made him nausious.

  
Any food he'd get, he had to earn. Needless to say, he didn't earn much. Actually, Dean was pretty sure he hadn't earned any, they were just afriad he'd die. The physical strain of torture was burning his body away faster than starvation.  
Now every time he woke up a shiver would run through him. It was a rare treat to wake by himself, but he hated the quivering. He was beyond exhausted. The shaking used to come only in the first moments, but now his hands and knees would start tremouring without cause. Sleep deprivation was taking its toll even on the guy who used to think four hours of sleep were a good long rest.

  
His world was very small now. The darkness. The torture room. His trainer. Just one guy. In the rare cases this man needed assistance, only one or two guards would come in, balaclavas covering their faces. But there was rarely a need. Constantly chained, Dean was so worn out by beatings, he was easy to maneuvre into the torture device of the day. And yet when Dean wasn't screaming, he was spewing insults, wisecracking, yelling agressive come-ons and backtalking like he was getting payed for it. And he kept asking. Demanding answers to just one question.

  
Since he couldn't link himself to Sam, he hid every memory, every hope to see his brother deep inside. That way he wouldn't even let that name slip accidentally during torture, so his brother would not be dragged down into this hell hole. But he needed someone to ground him to the world outside. A safe memory he could hold on to. The easy answer was her. Margo. It was her name he'd scream out, angrily demanding answers when he should have been begging for mercy. It was a believable legend that served a dual purpose. Dean didn't even notice how his little meditation allowed his affection for Margo to take extremely deep root. Who knew, had he not needed her to cover up his true loyalty, his feelings might have remained superficial and easy to overcome. Now they were dangerously deep and messed up.

  
At first the trainer kept telling him Margo was dead and Dean kept vehemently calling him out on the bull. So then Edgar told him that yes, Margo was alive but wanted Dean reconditioned after his little rebellion, that she did not want an untrained piece of shit like him. And that's when Dean knew something was up. He knew Margo was pissed at him the day of the accident. He also knew there was no way in hell she'd sign him up for this Klaus Barbie Bootcamp. So something must have happened that incapacitated her. But as long as she was alive they wouldn't do any real damage here. At least that was what logic and common sence dictated. Dean knew all too well, not much adheres to those two principles.


	13. Awakening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam gets Margo to pull herself together and go save Dean. He is hiding something and Margo doesn't trust him. Plus, these two really hate each other.

First time she tried to open her eyes light stabbed them with white-hot daggers. The splitting pain in her skull was nauseating. A high-pitched ringing in her ears was driving her nuts. Margo tried to move but pain shot through her neck. Fearing it might be broken she dragged her hands weakly to check. No, just muscular aches and cramps.

  
This was all too familiar and Margo struggled to tell apart the rushing memories from reality. She even called out to her mother before realizing this wasn't a rerun of her post-Africa time. There was no one there. She was alone. Tears pooled under her closed eyelids and pushed their way out, leaving long cold traces on their way down. She fell asleep.

  
She slept a lot now. So much, in fact, that it was difficult to tell how much time'd past. She felt like Punxsutawney Phil because of her new narcoleptic habits. Everything, every little effort seemed to drain her. Talking to the doctor, having tests done, eating. Going to the bathroom was a fucking quest nowadays. But Margo still insisted on enduring the few arduous steps to the washroom and back. She didn't hit her head enough to lose her pride, after all.

  
Doc said she had a concussion and some cuts in the back of her head from where she hit glass shards. They shaved around the cuts, applied stitches and put her on meds for the aftermath of the head injury. Since this was her second concussion and she was showing some symptoms that raised concerns, she was kept for observation longer than she expected. Margo thought it had something to do with her being filthy rich and knowing the Chief Physician of the hospital, but really didn't care. She just wanted to be given her pain meds and sleep. She was groggy, weak as a kitten and sick as a dog. Any minor strain on her part and she'd throw up or get a nose bleed. And god, the light sensitivity was unbearable. And the noise sensitivity. And the smell sensitivity. Margo was constantly miserable and bitchy and it took all of her self-control not to vent it on someone innocent.

  
Visitors were not allowed for at least a week and a half after she regained consciousness. Had she had any relatives, they would have been granted permission earlier, but everyone else was told to wait until she was a bit stronger. But nurses did bring in flowers and gifts. Tony sent her a bag of clothes from what he called her «Derelicte collection» (just some stuff she bought at a PX on one of her trips) and a make-up and nails kit «because there might be some cute doctors there». That warmed Margo's heart and cheered her up. She wouldn't put make up on right now, but the thought of someone caring gave her comfort.

  
On one of her good days she crawled to the bathroom and used the manicure scissors to cut her matted hair. Now only about a couple of inches of an uneven mess remained of the once luscious locks, but she felt better and right now that was all that mattered. Looking in the mirror though was a disturbing thing to do. Prettier things could be found on the side of the highway and it reminded her all too vividly of how she looked after the African incident. Margo started avoiding any mirrors, afraid to see the swaying pale ghost of herself with those bruise colored shadows around her sunken eyes.

  
She had been in the hospital for a little over two weeks when one night a tall broad-shouldered silhouette showed up in the doorway. Visitor hours were long past over, lights were out in her room and looking into the light flowing in from behind the newcomer was hurting her eyes.

  
"Lemme guess," she scoffed. "I know I'm not expecting any Warriors to visit, so this must be Sam Winchester. Be still, my heart."

  
Sam moved in and Margo stopped trying to conceal the hostility and irritation in her voice.

  
"What do you want, Winchester? Come to finish off what you started at my place?"

  
"I am sorry for what happened," Sam started placatingly. "I was protecting Dean."

  
"Hell of a job you did," she grumbled, falling back on the pillow. "By the way, how is he? Tried to call home, got no answer."

  
"That's why I'm here. They took Dean away."

  
"Who? The cops?" Margo lifted herself a bit too sharply and felt a wave of nausea.

  
"No, not cops. Fisher called a private detaining center and they took him away," his voice was even, but Margo could almost feel the undercurrents of sadness, fear and anger.

  
"And where were you when they were packing your brother up?" she hissed, lip curling up spitefully. "Why didn't you bash a few skulls then?"

  
"Dean didn't let me," Winchester younger hung his head, long hair falling over his eyes. "He took the blame before I even opened my mouth. And he didn't want anyone to know he was my brother. He said, if I interfered, it would render everything he's done pointless."

  
"How convenient," Margo noted mercilessly.

  
"You don't understand. He's been taking care of me since our mother was killed when I was just six months old. He's all I got. And he thinks that he has to protect me even at the cost of his own life," Sam's spoke passionately.

  
"And after all that you waited this long to tell me Dean was in the slammer?"

  
"I didn't wait. This is my fourth visit," Sam snapped. It wasn't the only reason for the delay, but Margo was an essential part of his plan and that part has been on hold long enough. "You were just too out of it to talk to."

  
"Thanks to you," Margo gave him the finger.

  
"Please,"  the young man backpaddled. "You've got to help me get him out."

  
"I'm not helping you do anything, Sam," despite the fact that she was somewhat moved by the brotherly devotion these two seemed to feel for each other, Margo didn't want anything to do with Sam. "I'm going to get Dean out, because that is my right and I'm the only one who can do it legally. Then I'm going to sleep a lot. And only then I will think about what to do about this mess. Now get out, I need to get dressed."

  
"You are going to need help to get there, you can barely stand," Sam argued. Margo stubbornly pushed his hand away when he tried to help her get up. She kicked him out and, willing herself to pull it together, started getting dressed. The world was spinning in front of her eyes, but there was no one to help Margo. No Fairy Godmother or Prince Charming to aid her in a moment of weakness. Those never come anyway. Whatever strength she needed, she had to find it inside herself. And then go kick some dragon ass and maybe even save a non-damsel in distress. Anger at her own frailty and natural jackass stubbornness fueled her now.

  
Sam was waiting for her in the hallway, refusing to fuck the hell off. They quietly left the hospital, avoiding any personnel, and caught a cab. Margo needed to go home and get Dean's bill of sale as proof of ownership before going to the detention center. The motion of the car and the flashes of light in the night were making her ill, so she decided to distract herself by asking Sam a few things.

  
"Where did Dean serve?" she inquired.

  
"How do you know he served?" Sam seemed slightly amused.

  
"He's got that... «I've seen shit, I've done shit» sort of thing going on. Seen it plenty of times before in soldiers," she grumbled. "When I first saw him, I thought he might be some indebted white-trash fuck-up. Or some one percenter or something. But now I think he did nothing of the sort."

  
Sam went quiet for a while and Margo almost stopped expecting a response.

  
"Our father was a Marine," he finally spoke. "He trained us. We, um, had a family business. Hunted bastards like the one that killed our mother."

"So you were what? PIs? Bounty hunters?"

  
"Something like that, yeah," Sam shot her an intense look all of the sudden. "Dean isn't a fuck-up. He's a hero. Him being reduced to a slave is not right. You have to understand that."

  
"I can't free him, if that's what you're asking," Margo shook her head carefully.

  
"Can't or won't?" Sam's slightly slanted eyes narrowed poisonously.

  
"I always say what I mean, Sam. Can't. Your brother must have been charged with some serious shit when he signed himself up. There's a clause. He can't be freed."

  
"Shit," Sam cursed. How could Dean do something like this? "Then sell him to me."

  
"Yeah, right," Margo snorted. "I maybe rich, but I'm not going to throw money away. Do you know how much he cost me? And after tonight I'd have to add his stay in detention to that. I don't think you could come up with a sum like that if you sold your soul to the Devil. Plus, I don't think it would be wise. To trust you with Dean."

  
"Wouldn't be wise? He's my brother!" Sam started, but Margo cut him off rudely.

  
"A lot of good that's done him so far, huh? You think you can take care of him? Like you have up til now?" malevolent sarcasm was not the best way to go, but Margo threw tact out the window.

  
"And you think you're taking care of him, is that it? You know, I used to admire you," Sam wasn't hiding anymore either. "The way you stood up for the suffering, for the ones the world forgot. And yet you bought a person, like some inanimate object. You're just a hypocrite."

  
"I'm not here to live up to your expectations, boy," Margo spoke sternly. She's had enough. "You don't like me? That's your problem. Doesn't change anything."

  
"Yeah, doesn't change that you went back on what you believed."

  
"Don't you presume to know what I believe," Margo was tired of this childishness. "I believe I have a responsibility in regards to your brother. I believe he ended up a slave because he couldn't take care of himself. He needed someone to guide him, and he was lucky to find an owner who doesn't consider a slave a walking tool. There were cultures where slaves sat at the same table as the masters, next to the children. Someone who can't take care of himself and needs a master's hand is almost a child. If you think for one second that I will transfer my responsibility for one giant kid to another, you are sadly mistaken."

  
"Dean is not a child!" Sam reared up. "As long as I can remember, he's always had responsibility on his shoulders! Always taking care of someone else. He's the most reliable person I know. And you think he can't take care of himself?!"

  
"Wow, then I guess now we know why he is what he is, don't we?" Margo bit back like a venomous snake. "Discussion's over. I can't free him and I'm not selling. Dixi."

  
She leaned back and closed her eyes. Sam was left to fume. Good thing they arrived a few minutes after that. He payed the cabby and Margo rushed into the house without inviting him in. If police had been here before, traces of their presence have been removed. Guess they believed Dean was guilty of assault, not Sam. In such cases it was the Master who'd act as the judge and the executioner. Only time the law stepped in was when the owner was killed. And then they'd just put the guilty slave down like a rabid dog.

  
The house was dark, but for her that wasn't a problem anymore. She paused at the sight of dried stains on the kitchen floor. Her blood. Coffee. Dean's clothes that had been torn off and discarded on the floor. She shuddered and moved to find what she needed. Wallet, phone, car keys and the paperwork. Having collected everything, Margo went down to the garage. In the car she took a few moments to log into the control app and curse like a sailor upon learning exactly where Dean had been taken to. Harrison Training and Detention Center. A simple name for a place probably every slave in the city feared. Many owners sent their hard cases there, but among those who had a heart the place was notorious for its use of torture to break the slaves. Jesus, this man knew how to find trouble. And if any of the stories she's heard about that place were true, she needed to get there fast.

  
Sam was waiting on the curb when the solid black Chevelle rolled into the street, its chrome detail and rims gleaming. He moved to the car, but Margo stepped on the gas and the wheels slowly started to turn.

  
"Nahah, Sam," she spoke through the rolled down window. "You're not invited. I remember what you said to Dean. Buy you out, free you or break you out. You've struck out twice. Not aiding that third thing."

  
She stepped on the gas and left Sam cursing and regretting that he no longer carried a gun. Driving was hard and risky since she couldn't even move her eyeballs without getting that stabbing pain in her skull, but even though she needed help, Margo wasn't going to ask Sam Winchester for it.


	14. From the frying pan into the fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning. This is the rapiest part of the story. But everything will work out. Sort of.

His mother used to tell him angels were watching over him. Many a time since then Dean's asked himself if they were enjoying the show. He stopped believing in angels a long long time ago. If anyone was watching this horror show it wasn't to prevent harm coming Dean's way, it was to get their rocks off. So Dean didn't bother believing anymore. Or hoping. There was no hope in this never-ending nightmare.

  
His life, his sanity, his ability to form a coherent thought have almost slipped away through his trembling fingers. His body, which used to be a fine-tuned war-machine, was breaking apart, betraying him all the time. Like now, when he struggled to get off the wet cold cement, but his arms wouldn't support the weight he tried to put on them.

  
He's been especially bad today. Maybe he had a death wish after all. Getting someone to beat you to death could constitute as a suicide attempt. Maybe he hated himself and just didn't care enough. Or maybe he was doing penance for something. So many things to do penance for. Leila, who lost her chance to heal that brain tumor at the hands of the faith-healer Roy. The guy that was killed by that reaper so Dean's heart could get better. Dad, who gave his life for Dean. Sam. So many things to say there. Jessica. Had he not dragged Sammy away that night.... And Margo. Her blood on his hands. So much blood.

  
He thought he was hallucinating, but realized it was his own blood he was looking at right now. Water pooling on the floor was tainted pink with it. A blow to the ribs came and right after it the electric cattle prod bit into his side, burning the flesh and sending waves of agony through his unresistant body. Dean howled and collapsed, sobbing spasmatically when the prod was removed. He tried to curl up, to at least try and protect most vulnerable parts oh his body. He wasn't allowed to do it, but still tried. And got a whip lash for his trouble.

  
"Say it!" Edgar demanded for god knows which time today. "Say it, you worthless sack of shit!"

  
"Blow me, Mr.Ed," an insult still managed to roll of his bloodied lips that felt like raw pieces of meat. Blood resumed to trickle from the split lip onto his chin, like juice from a bursting ripe berry.

  
"I have had enough of you, you insolent little bitch," the trainer spat and threw down the toys he'd been using. "So far you've been pampered, because you're some rich girl's pet. Well, I think I know exactly how to break a tough guy like you."

  
His bony fingers gripped Dean's wet grimy hair as he pulled the chained slave over the whipping bench. Dean hardly offered any resistance anymore. His wrists were clipped to the bench, and then his legs were tied to the posts. It became painfully clear that Dean was absolutely helpless and his naked ass was completely accessible to the trainer.

  
"My, my, I should have tapped this as soon as we got you," the man sneered, kneading Dean's butt and spreading his ass cheeks. "You were just born to take cock, weren't you, slut?"

  
Sharp slaps landed on the firm globes, all of the ministrations causing pain due to welts from previous whippings. But Dean in his panic overdrive didn't even feel it. He started squirming and writhing in futile attempts to free himself. This could not be happening, and yet it was. Not a nightmare, but reality. And even for Dean's reality which involved monsters and demons this was too much. This was just a human taking a perverted advantage over another human.

  
Harsh reality of slavery made itself all too clear. Honestly, when he sold himself he knew some slaves were raped. But he thought a guy of his fighting skills and build would not be used as a pleasure slave, but a fighter, a bodyguard, hell, even as hard labor force. He even predicted some interest from female owners. But this... to see his very unperceived yet founded childhood fear realized.... It struck terror into every fiber of his being.

  
"You just can't wait, can you, whore?" the trainer continued, now pressing his crotch against the slave and rutting, letting him feel the hardening bulge beneath the fabric. "You slaves fight and resist, but a good thorough fucking always puts you in your place. And I'm gonna enjoy fucking you."

  
"You do that, it will be the most expensive fuck in your life," thank god he hadn't been gagged. It gave him a chance to at least try to save himself from rape. "My Mistress payed extra to keep me untapped. You do it and she's gonna be pissed. I bet you'll have to sell a kidney to pay the fine, you motherfucker!"

  
"Well, I can see you haven't gotten much use, if any, so maybe you're telling the truth. She wants to pop this cherry herself, huh?" the bastard laughed but stopped groping Dean's ass. "Got to respect the owner's wishes. Too bad."

  
"Yeah, my heart bleeds for you," Dean grumbled, giving a small sigh of relief and trying to figure out what the perverted sonofabitch was up to now. Dean could hear him move about, but that was about it.

  
"Oh, don't you worry boy," the trainer grabbed a fistful of Dean's hair and yanked the slave's head back. "There's more than one way to skin a cat."

  
Dean felt like the vertebrae in his neck were being crushed while his larynx collapsed from overstretching. He gasped reflexively and instantly a metal ring was forced into his mouth. A ring gag. This was bad, very bad. Deliverance bad. Dean started shaking his head violently, not even caring that some of the hair Edgar was clutching was probably getting ripped out. The ring gag fell onto the floor.

  
"Feisty little bitch," Edgar cursed and slammed his fist into Dean's face. He hit the slave several times, rendering him almost unconscious. Then picked up the gag and once again slid it into a now unresisting mouth. Dean could feel the taste of blood. Maybe the inside of his cheek got torn on his teeth when he was punched. Maybe the careless way the metal was shoved in tore the thin tissue inside his mouth. The gag was tightly fixed into place.

  
"It's a good look on you, boy," the trainer grabbed his chin and lifted the slave's head up. "Going to look even better with my dick inside your mouth. What, no smartass remark?"

  
He pushed two fingers through the ring and started rubbing Dean's tongue, pressing it down. Dean gagged when the fingers pushed in deeper. Saliva pooled inside his mouth and spilled onto his chin.

  
"Well, this isn't right," Edgar scolded. "You haven't had any training at all, have you? Now, that's a sin. A pretty moth like yours shouldn't be allowed to spill garbage. It should be wrapped around a cock."

  
He traced Dean's lips with his fingers and pushed them in once more.

  
"Mmm, bet your lips will look real good after I ruin them," he spoke as Dean struggled through another gagging seizure. This time the trainer didn't remove his fingers, even using his free hand to hold the slave's head in place.

  
"Breathe through your nose, steady now," he spoke as if the tied and about to be raped man before him was just a child learning to swim. "Don't fight me. Oh boy, this is going to be hard for you. Well, more fun for me."

  
Edgar let Dean go and unzipped his pants. He took out his half-hard cock and started stroking it, running his thumb over the slit. When Dean turned away, his hair was once again gripped tightly as he was forced to look at the hardening member about to be forced into his mouth. Never in his life has Dean ever wanted to get this close and personal with any man.

  
When Edgar tried to guide his hardened dick into the wide spread mouth, Dean jerked his head violently. Another hand dug into his hair which was stiff from all the blood, dirt and sweat. But even then holding him in place was hard — Dean thought his neck would break from the strain he put on it while fighting to avoid the intrusion. But it was a losing battle. Soon, very soon, the muscles in his neck and upper back would tire and he wouldn't be able to prevent the violation. The seeming inevitability of this made him scream desperately.

  
Dean didn't quite understand what happened next. Edgar suddenly let him go and screamed, doubling over, both his hands flying to cover his crotch. Someone spun him around and Dean saw that someone's knee slam fast and hard into his torturer's solar plexus. Once, twice. And the man fell on the floor, retching.

  
All Dean could see were tactical boots and black military pants of the person who was now unclasping the gag. His first thought was of Sam, but his mean-spirited savior was much smaller. As the gag fell out, Dean realigned his jaw and spat out the taste of another man's fingers smeared over his tongue. He saw his savior approach the writhing Edgar and kick him in the stomach.

  
"Keys!" a very familiar voice barked. "Keys, you son of a bitch, or the next time I'll kick you in the face!"

  
There was no arguing there and Edgar gave up the keys to Dean's chains. Dean struggled to believe it was her, even when Margo crouched down to unchain his hands and her face was almost touching his.

  
"Hold on , Dean, just hold on," she talked to him soothingly. "I'll get you out of here."

  
She freed his legs and Dean rolled off the bench. He'd rather lay on the floor than on something that was almost used to rape him. Margo approached him and he put his hand on her boot, as if wanting to make sure she was real. His eyes were watering and stinging like hell. Margo grabbed his face gently , cursed quietly on seeing it has been beaten into a bloody pulp and looked him in the eyes.

  
"Talk to me, do you feel like anything is broken or torn inside?" there was no crying, no useless lamenting or pity. Her manor of action was very down to the point. Like a soldier on a mission.

  
"I thought the honeymoon was over," Dean cracked a smile.

  
"I'm gonna take that as a no," Margo nodded. "Try to get up. I gotta take care of this guy."

  
Dean watched as she roughly cuffed Edgar's hands behind his back and forced a ball gag into his mouth. She picked up the cattle prod and spoke to the man on the floor, seething cold hatred.

  
"D'you rape him, you bastard? Did you do that to him?" she struck the prod into the bare skin on the man's hip, eliciting a pained cry from behind the gag. "Did you?"

  
By her methodical and focused demeanor Dean suddenly understood that she really could kill a guy right here and now. He also saw the shaved stripes around the stitches on the back of her head. And the terribly cut short hair. Leaning on the bench, he got himself up and called her.

  
"Margo!" she immediately came to him, concern in her eyes. Dean pulled her into a hug and held tightly. "You got here in time. I'm OK. Are you? Are you OK?"

  
Her cheek was pressed against a naked, dirty guy who stank of blood and sweat, but Margo laughed. She just pulled him out of a rape and torture session and he was asking her if she was OK? Fucking unbelievable!

  
"I'm good, Dean, let's get you out of here!"

  
He told her to hang on a sec and limped over to Edgar squirming on the wet floor. Dean grabbed his torturer by the collar of his shirt and put whatever strength he had left into one devastating punch. Edgar was knocked out cold and damn it if Dean didn't feel just a little better.

  
"I'm ready to go now," he said, struggling not to collapse.

  
Margo threw his arm around her shoulders and leaned into his weight like a horse into a yoke to support Dean. It was a terrible thing for him, he was a huge strong guy and yet he needed this woman to lean onto. And he needed any help he could get. His step faltered and staying upright was a task that required full attention. But there was someone next to him, someone who wasn't a family member or a friend, and yet put their strength into supporting him, who was willing to kick ass, even kill for his sake.

  
"Whoa there," Margo pulled him up when he swayed. "Stay with me. C'mon, soldier, move! That's it, keep it up. A little further. Talk to me, Dean."

  
Dean would have smiled if he could. He would have expected a woman to cry or comfort him. And that would have killed him. But her barking and pushing mobilized him for the final effort.

  
"They told me you were dead," he said simply.

  
"Yeah, well, they grossly exaggerated," Margo smirked. He didn't need to word it differently. She heard what he really wanted to say.

  
"You still look like crap," his voice was raspy and breath ragged, but he joked to keep conscious. "Frankenstein's bride."

  
"Look who's talking," she sniped back. Margo didn't care what he said as long as he kept it up. She herself could feel veins throbbing in her temples and that terrible high-pitch ringing in her ears had begun. Pressure inside her skull kept mounting until a tiny warm stream of blood started flowing from her nose. Whatever happened to Dean here was on her. She'd be damned before she let him down again.

  
"Just a little further to the car, hold on," she said for both of their sake, wiping her face and smearing the blood.

  
"No worries, G.I.Jane. Aren't you going to get in trouble for beating that guy?" it was a real concern for him.

  
"Anyone here wants to challenge me on that issue, they are welcome to fucking try," Margo growled like an angry wolverine. Dean thought he'd buy tickets to that show.

  
Walking through empty hallways of what really looked like a psych ward with all the sound proof metal doors with shut observation slits, they came to a service elevator and got to the underground parking lot. Margo helped Dean into the passenger seat of the Chevelle and started the engine. This was the most dangerous part of the rescue.

  
When people get caught in something and need rescue, it is often when help comes that their bodies relax and stop fighting for survival. Some die just when their salvation arrives. Margo needed Dean to keep himself from tripping over the edge, but she also had to leave him for fifteen minutes. She hated it, but she did have to sign for him to prevent any trouble with the cops. If she didn't do it now, they might think Dean got stolen or ran away. She had to sign and split before they found Edgar.

  
"Dean, listen, I am going to leave the car running so the A/C is on. Turn on the radio, do whatever you want, but stay in the car and stay awake, ya hear?"

  
"Jesus fucking Christ," Dean saw her face. "You're bleeding! Don't go, we need to get you to a hospital. I can drive. C'mon, I've had worse than this, I can!

  
Margo wiped her face with a handkerchief but the blood wasn't stopping. She pressed the stained fabric to her nose and looked at Dean, hoping this ridiculous look didn't undermine her orders for him.

  
"Shut up and stay put. There's a bottle of water in the glove compartment. Small sips and keep it in your mouth as long as you can before swallowing. Drink it fast and your liver will swell. I need to go sign you out of here. I'll be back in five," she looked at his bruised and bloody face. "I promise I'll be back soon. Just hang on."

  
As she was about to leave, Dean caught her by the arm.

  
"I fought them," he spoke softly. "You gotta believe me, I fought them every step of the way."

  
And again, there was so much those words carried. Searching her face with his now clouding green eyes, he hoped she'd understand. She did. He couldn't believe it, but she did.

  
"I know, Dean," she returned his gaze. "I'm proud of you."

  
With that she left him. Adrenalin pumping in her blood kept her moving fast and well even though under normal circumstances she would have collapsed by now. Since this was around 2 A.M. there was just one person at the desk. And he wasn't willing to talk a lot or drag the procedure out any longer than needed. Signing a form and resuming control through the security system, she was done in five minutes.

  
Meanwhile in the car Dean was beginning to drift away and fighting the warm and inviting feeling tempting and dragging him away into sleep. The door on the driver's side opened and shut. Someone reached for Dean's collar and fiddled with it. Suddenly the cursed thing felt heavier. Dean opened his eyes.

  
"Sammy?!" he sat up. The car threw itself into action fast. "Where is Margo?"

  
"She's done her part, Dean," Sam assured his brother. "We gotta get the hell out of Dodge now."

  
When Margo got back to the parking lot, the car was gone. She ran into the street, but, of course, by then it was too late. Margo's brain feverishly ran over all possible versions. Dean couldn't possibly have driven off himself. Sam. Fucking. Winchester. Margo let out an angry scream into the sleeping street. Blood was streaming non-stop from both her nostrils now. Suddenly, the last of her strength abandoned her. Her bones turned to jelly and her stomach convulsed painfully and spilled its juices onto the pavement. She'd been running on fumes and those just burned out too. Margo let go of the fight and tiredly sank onto the curb and dialed 911.


	15. Nights in white satin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean and Sam find their way to their friends, but Dean's feelings for Margo linger, causing tension and desrupting the peace. But it's not like he's fallen for her or anything, he just thinks of her once in a while. Or a lot, but that still doesn't mean he's in trouble! After all, Dean is so good with feelings....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Side note: I apologize to any expert on jamming equipment for any techno babble done wrong here. I have encountered this stuff but by no means do I claim to know a lot about it. If I got something wrong, don't judge me too harshly.

The first week was the hardest. Dean could hardly sit with his entire back whipped raw. Most of the time he'd just try and find a comfortable position in the back seat and lay there half asleep, feeling every bump on the road. He needed medical supplies, lots of them. First chance Sam got, he made a day's worth of business for a tiny drug store, bying almost all the cold packs, bandages, peroxide, neosporin and extra-strength pain meds.

  
Most of all Dean needed a quiet clean place to lay low and heal, especially when he started running a fever. But that was a luxury they could not afford. They ditched the Chevelle outside of Concord and Sam stole a ride that was more incospicuous and easier to feed. They pushed forth at the busiest times of the day, when their car would get lost in the general stream. At night Sam would find a tiny pathway to some farm and park there, out of sight of any passers-by. Because of the necessity to change cars regularly and drive on smaller roads parallel the I-80 E it was taking them longer than Sam anticipated. Plus there was only one driver and he had to stop to take care of his passanger's injuries at least three times a day. The more time passed, the more nervous Sam got. Every stop they made he'd buy newspapers with gossip columns and society pages and look for news on Margo.

  
The first few days it was nothing to worry about. Sure, the media were having a ball because a rich person got robbed big time and ended up in the hospital. What's not to love? But soon the tone of the articles started changing, and that alarmed Sam. The urgency of getting to Central Nebraska was growing by the hour.

  
The device Sam got from Ash and attached to Dean's collar back at Harrison TDC was tempering with the thing's electronics, preventing the cops from getting his coordinates. The fact that a state of the art collar failed somehow leaked into the media and the company that produced the hellish control mechanism got involved. Their product was supposed to be a top of the market fool-proof device and somehow it failed. From what Sam could tell, they were putting extra pressure on the police to find the culprit. Then there was the situation with Margo.

  
She checked out of the hospital about a week after that memorable night, around the same time Sam and Dean reached the Roadhouse. The reporters were bugging her tremendously, still, to Sam's eternal relief, she did not claim Dean as a runaway or indicate that she knew who stole the car. But the gossip colums started talking about violence in the Russian Hill mansion. Some said that Dean rebelled and attacked his owner, reciting testimonies from some paparazzi Dean scared and some rich assmonkey named Buchanan, who claimed that Dean was an ill-trained ape owned by an irresponsible thrill-seaker. Some said that it was Margo who abused her slave so much that he lashed out. Given the human rights angle of her past work, that little twist was especially loved by the press.

  
Sam did everything he could to conceal all that crap from Dean, who, even when he was delirious, was obviously worried that they left the woman bleeding on the curb. Eyes wild and sparkling with that tell-tale feverish glint, Dean would demand that Sam called to check if she was OK or even turned back, because she needed help. When Dean's fever reached it's peak, he got caught in a nightmare, believing that after they left her near the TDC, Margo took Dean's place there. The fever subsided, but Dean was still concerned. And that escalated Sam's own unease, but for entirely different reasons. He made a compromise by telling Dean when she was out of the hospital, and that calmed the older man down a little. Until they got to the Roadhouse.

  
There, Ellen closed the place down for business and took over caring for Dean while Ash locked himself in his room, writing scripts to look for any weak links in the security system that had its grip on Dean. Sam was on edge, so he stuck his nose into the computer to monitor police activity in regards to him and his brother. He helped Ellen with nurse duty and Dean hated it. He hated his own feebleness and all the attention he was getting. He was grouchy, bitchy and irritable, so most of the time Sam stayed out of his way. Arguments started flaring up here and there and neither was in any state to handle them gracefully.

  
It took about four more days for Dean to start getting up and limping around on his own, all stiff and sore. He was tired of lying on his stomach and just sleeping, he was bored out of his mind and his appetite was returning. The most clothing he could tolerate were boxers, but, naturally, no one was offended. Though the whip marks on his back did make even the hardened hunters wince. These weren't monster souvenirs, this was the work of humans, and that was something very disturbing to the tough but compassionate Roadhouse gang. They did their best not to give away their feelings, knowing that Dean would mistake compassion for pity and not be pleased. But Dean couldn't wait until the day he would be able to cover up his mutilated body with clothes and let it finish the healling privately.

  
Dean didn't let it show but he was immensely relieved when Ellen told him they would be able to avoid scarring. It wasn't a vanity thing. God knows, Dean had enough scars, a few more wouldn't make a difference. But to have someone's whip carve its claim of ownership into your flesh, when everything has already been taken away from you, would have been too much. Thankfully, that dick Edgar knew enough not to cause permanent damage to a client's slave. Any skin he broke would heal cleanly. The rest was just heavy bruising. Still hurt like a bitch.

  
The day Bobby promised to swing by, Dean crawled downstairs wearing sweatpants and an old oversized tee, clutching a laptop he grabbed from Ash in his hands. Ellen was making lunch for him and popped out of the kitchen to pour Dean a beer.

  
"You comfortable in that, sweetie?" she asked as Dean gingerly pulled himself up on the barstool. "Will's clothes fit you?"

  
"Yeah, thanks," Dean nodded. "To be honest, I'd wear anything not to prance around naked anymore. I'm thinking of charging you guys for the show already. But this stuff is good. Doesn't bother me much."

  
"What's with the laptop?"

  
"Uh, wanted to catch up on a few things," Dean answered vaguely. Ellen looked at him and grunted a sceptical «uh-huh». By now she'd heard Dean briefly mention the woman who owned him a couple of times. Even overheard an argument between brothers where her name got thrown around quite a bit.

  
"So you like her, do you?" Ellen smiled. In the year after Sam's departure for college she an Dean got a lot closer and she cared for him as if he was a son she never had. It actually made Ellen happy that Dean finally found a woman beyond a one-night stand. She'd seen enough in her life to know that just by looking at Dean. Even if the boy himself was oblivious to the truth.

  
"It just isn't right, the way we left her there that night," Dean grumbled, switching his attention to the laptop quickly. "Just wanna make sure she's OK."

  
He waited for the old machine to start up and then quickly pulled up latest news mentioning the name of one Margo Savage. Ellen studied his face as Dean flipped through the articles, emotions fluidly changing, following the words his green eyes scanned. He smirked and secretly swelled with pride as he read Margo's sharp sarcastic retorts to stupid and offensive questions. He imagined her face and the tone of her voice when she said those venom-filled words. Frowned when his eyes came across the name of the guy he scorned at that soiree. When Dean finally got the picture of the trouble he and Sam stirred up, his face gained a very hard look. He abandonned his homework briefly in favor of the sausage and mash with gravy Ellen brought.

  
"What's she like?" Ellen inquired, once she saw Dean's features soften once more. In her experience, a man had better be fed before being asked something.

  
"Awesome," the word slipped out before he even had a chance to think it through. "Smart, funny, tough. And god is she..."

  
"Ah-ah!" Ellen saw exactly what was coming next. The wolfish expression on his face said it all. "Don't need the details. I get it!"

  
"She's not what everyone thinks she is," Dean said quietly after he stopped smiling and started picking at the food on his plate. "And she's not what Sam thinks she is.'

  
"He's just trying to protect you," Ellen pointed out. "That's what you boys do, isnt't?"

  
"He thinks it's some Stockholm syndrome thing," the hunter huffed disdainfully at the notion.

  
"Ah, come on," the older woman smiled understandingly. "He's worried and he's trying to make up for something he thinks he's lost."

  
"I know. He doesn't need to worry, though," Dean finished the conversation. "It would have never worked out anyway."

  
And with that the stubborn Dean Winchester closed himself off to the world, focusing entirely on the food he didn't really feel like eating anymore and the beer he shouldn't have been drinking. Sam's been nagging him about mixing booze and meds lately, fucking kill-joy. A couple of hours later Bobby arrived and everyone gathered at one of the larger tables.

  
"Well, lemme tell you," Bobby started after a brief but heartfelt greetings with the two hunters he considered his own sons. "You boys kicked up a hornets nest. Far as I can tell all the roads leading from San Francisco to Mexico and Canada are being monitored by the cops. No one's figured where you two really went so far, but, man, are they jonesing for your blood."

  
"Do you know if they have any idea who stole me?" Dean got to the point and didn't even notice that everyone else cringed at his use of the word «stole».

  
"No, my contacts said your girl Margo did not provide a discription and didn't make any guesses," Bobby cast a hard look at both men, having heard from Ellen about the discord on the subject. "Doesn't seem like she's the one behind the manhunt. From what I hear, she's trying to cool things down, actually."

  
"Good, then Sam can get back...."

  
"Dean, I'm not leaving you again!" Sam picked up where they last left that conversation, loudly so.

  
"Sure, Sam, why don't you just throw everything the fuck away!" Dean roared, setting everyone but his brother aback. "Do you think I did everything I did so you could just chuck your future into the crapper?!"

  
"Exactly, Dean, my future! My responsibility, my call, not yours!"

  
"Boy, you weren't kidding, were you?" Bobby asked Ellen quietly while the two brothers roared at each other above their heads like a couple of dinosaurs in an old movie.

  
"Guys, that's enough!" Ellen slammed the dark worn out surface of the table with her hand. "Bitching at each other will get you nowhere. Now sit down, shut up and let's talk this over like adults!"

  
Dean obeyed immideately, Sam was a bit slower to do it, but took his place and schooled his features into something more neutral.

"Alright," Ellen confirmed. "Now, Ash, what's the progress on Dean's collar?"

  
"Sorry, so far everything's hit a brick wall," Ash shook his head. "But the scripts are poking at it as we speak. We just need more time. But I'm afraid at some point that little magic box on you is going to have to go."

  
"Why is that?" Dean tensed and unwittingly reached for his collar.

  
"Well, first of all, those bad guys on the Death Star ain't exactly picking their noses," The MIT genius admitted. "I'm trying to break down something of theirs and they're trying to override the effects of something of ours. The jammer's transmitting signals on the same frequencies of that collar and at a high enough power that the signals collide and cancel each other out. Now, I also have a terrestrial satellite signal jammer to block the emergency tracker they should have activated by now, so as long as we have power, chances are, you got some time. But these guys keep powering up the signal and also trying different waves to access the system. Sooner or later they might succeed. We can't keep powering Dean's jammer up forever, soon it's gonna start warming up and not in a fun way. And all of it is bad mojo for Dean anyway. Might lead to cancer, hair loss, erectile dysfunction..."

  
"Then what are you sitting here for?" Dean jumped nervously. The words "erectile dysfunction" were almost the only thing he picked out of all the techno babble. "C'mon, man, find a way to get this shit off before my balls start glowing in the dark or I grow extra limbs!"

  
"Hang on, I ain't done with the good stuff," Ash continued earnestly. "Once I break into the collar's system, I will have to stop messing with the signal. We're going to need it ourselves to take the thing off you."

  
"Won't it send a signal straight to the cops?" Bobby spoke up. Ash, who was now taking a swig right out of the beer can in front of him just raised a hand as if to say "give the man a cigar!" and looked at Ellen.

  
"Well then, we'll just have to get you somewhere remote," Ellen suggested. "Shut it off and get out fast. Cops will never find you."

  
"We'd need to transport the equipment there," Sam said in a sunken voice. "There's no way we can do that."

  
Everyone sat silent for a while.

  
"We'll have to work fast right here and then create a diversion when the cops come," Ellen said. "Ash, back to work. Sam, keep monitoring police activity. Bobby, we need your help disposing of the last car the boys used to get here."

  
"When did you become so bossy?" Bobby grumbled, but that was fake irritation. The affection in his voice was obvious. Past couple of years their relationship with Ellen developed into something more than friendship.

  
"You like it," Ellen's slightly coarse voice took on a playful undertone and a smile appeared in the corner of her mouth as she used one of Dean's lines.

  
"Get a room, you two!" Dean rolled his eyes, like he has many times before he got collared. "Bobby, since Ellen here thinks I'm chopped liver, you got what I asked?"

  
Sam, who, unlike Ash, lingered, immediately perked up. Bobby took a rolled up file from the inside pocket of his heavily worn jacket.

  
"Yeah, I got it," he handed what was, unmistakably, a case file to Dean. "Though I gotta wonder what an African shifter has anything to do with any of this."

  
"So it is a shifter!" - Dean smiled triumphantly. "Knew it!"

  
"Boy, have you lost your mind?" the old man demanded. "Don't you have more pressing issues?"

  
"It's just a favor for a friend...."

  
"A friend?" oh, Sam was mad. His jaw went stiff and his nostrils were flaring. "I'm busting my ass to get you free and you're doing favors for that... that woman?"

  
He replaced the last word just as he was about to say something entirely different, but thought his older brother might flip out again and this time actually slug him.

  
"Yeah, Sam, I am," Dean's clearly had enough of this ongoing argument. "This is a case. I'm a hunter. This is what I do. And you know what? I've had it up to here with people telling me what I can and cannot do. Maybe I can't get this thing off my neck, but I can do my fucking job!"

  
For a second a heavy silence held. Then Dean, who never in his life wanted to hurt his brother, grinned wolfishly and added:  
"B'sides, if Margo wants me to do her some favors, I'm more than willing...."

  
"Aaaah!" Sam let out a «frustrated little brother» scream and backed the hell off. "Dean, you're disgusting!"

  
Dean laughed, but as soon as his brother stormed off, he immediately got back to business. Bobby and Ellen were looking at him cautiously but followed his lead.

  
"Dean, if this is what I think it is, you gotta rethink it," Bobby insisted unexpectedly. "Let's say you make your way through a dozen barf bags and actually manage to get to Tanzania. The easiest way to lure this thing out is bait it with someone it already attacked before. Or someone who openly claims their disbelief in its existence."

  
Dean's eyes shot up and fixed their gaze on the wise old drunk.

  
"I know you, boy, you're not going to use anyone like that."

  
"No," the younger hunter agreed, looking through the materials pensively. "But I can't let this bastard walk after what he did to her. You don't know, you didn't see her... I don't care what I have to do, I'll figure something out. Soon as I'm free, I'm making sure this bastard's not sucking air anymore."

  
"Fine, son," Bobby accepted. "We'll figure something out. In the meantime, you wanna step outside? I brought something you might be glad to see."

  
Dean's reunion with Baby was a happy moment for more than just him. Bobby and Ellen both felt their hearts fill with warm light upon seeing Dean smiling the way he used to once - ear to ear, eyes laughing, charming tell-tale wrinkles at their corners. The older couple stood on the porch of the Roadhouse, and Bobby wrapped his arm around the tough fronteer woman next to him and drew her closer. Maybe, just maybe there was hope after all. Hope for freedom, hapiness, love. No one in that company would even dare think of it not to jinx it, but that whisper of hope was like a dirty little secret. Unseen, unspoken of, but present nonetheless.

  
That night, when Dean decided he's had enough of planning to kill the shifter that raped the woman he cared about (just a little, Dean Winchester wasn't dumb enough to fall in love!), the hunter dragged the laptop onto the pillow and searched for Margo's articles. She was there, the real her. In those mercilessly harsh truths she sank her claws into and dragged kicking and screaming into the light. In her dry, ruthless, almost cold but sardonic manner of writing about whatever horrors the human race indulged in. Her words cut precisely and deeply like a scalpel in knowing hands.

  
There was something disturbing in that, deep in Dean's mind there was a little alarm bell going off, raising doubt as to the woman's motivations. Whatever she was after when she submerged herself in the darkness and the moral ambiguity of her work it wasn't idealism. But in his current state of physical and mental exhaustion Dean just ignored the warning signs. All he wanted to see was the irresistibly alluring woman behind the words she'd written.  
Dean never was one to keep up with the current affairs and issues the articles covered were foreign to him, but he read on, because this was Margo. He read her thoughts in her voice and could imagine what emotion she'd put into this phrase or that. His mind obligingly added the vague scent of her perfume. Then the memory of her warmth, the softness of her hair tickling his face, the smooth glide of his hand on her skin. On a better day Dean would have been taking a long shower by now, but his body was too drained for any sexual activity, so pretty quickly he just relaxed from the thought of Margo's comforting presence. Dean drifted off to sleep and happily dreamed of a woman he by no means loved.


	16. Something dark inside of me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Margo stretches her wings and finds a little of her old self. She also meets a blast from the Winchesters' past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The name of the chapter is from a song by Dustin Kensrue. The lyrics reminded me so much of Margo that I had to use that phrase.

Everyone and their uncle was up in her face these days. Reporters, police, concerned friends, even more concerned buisiness assosiates, insurance guys, guys from the security and control enforcement company, bounty hunters offering to find her runaway, lawyers settling that little incident at the TDC and turning it around so that the place now owed Margo. And, as a cherry on top, a pitiful handful of foaming at the mouth crazy anti-slavery activists staged a tiny protest in front of her house the day she got back from the hospital. An hour was all they manged with their little show before the cops kindly asked them to leave.

  
The worst part was the suspension. All Margo could do, it seemed, was wait for news from police, just hanging there, going through the motions in the hoop-la stirring around her. Well, not exactly true. She did have to fight back the secret campaign James Buchanan seemed to have started against her. Certain people Margo knew and/or employed easily traced the loudest haters back to Buchanan. The petty bastard was probably having a lot of fun at her expence. It was a good pretence to let off some steam and let the destructive part of her nature stretch its wings.

  
There were quiet but effective means of dealing with your rivals and as it turned out, it was very stimulating to Margo's brain. Like an exercise for a mind that's existed in a trans for too long and was now itching for action. Margo felt like a snake shedding its skin. The other benefit was that dealing with a competitor was a good demonstration of her strength and competence to her team. The combination she set up was an elegant and satisfying one. Machiavelli would have approved. That briefly made Margo happy.

  
But there was still a void in her home and in her heart where a green-eyed disturbance has been not so long ago. Margo thought of him, all bloodied and beaten, and still cracking jokes, still worried about her. Really, who else truly worried about her as a person? How long has it been since she'd encountered something so sincere and... pure? It was funny to think of Dean as pure — he was an ex-criminal, an obvious slut and a total mess. Yet, his heart, his soul... were untainted. Unmarred. Unlike her own. And that purity about him made Dean a victim despite the fact that he was a tough ex-soldier and ex-con. The predator inside Margo honed in on that and now that Dean was in the wind, her inner beast howled desperately in fear someone else might claim it for themself.

  
One day she was sitting on a window sill looking at a little pentagram drawn high up on the frame. It was the first one she'd discovered, but since then she'd found signs and sigils on every entrance to the house. Dean didn't seem like a religious nut, so what was with all the woo-woo crap? What was he afraid of? The phone made her jump in the midst of the thoughts about the occult. Her car had been found.

  
Two hours later she was rescuing her beloved King from the police impound in Concord and crawling all over to see if any damage had been done. A shiver went down her spine at the sight of dried blood on the passanger seat. She took out some baby wipes from the trunk and cleaned it off the original vinyl cover. When she was about to get behind the wheel of her treasured car, a dark-skinned bald man in a relatively cheap suit (compared to what her usual counterparts wore) approached her.

  
"Margo Savage?" he asked in an official tone Margo immediately disliked.

  
"Who wants to know?" she did not see the necessity to feign pleasentness.

  
"Special Agent Victor Henriksen," he flashed his badge at the rather unphased woman. "I wanted to ask you some questions in regards to your case."

  
"Agent, my lawyers will not approve of my talking to you without them," she warned coldly. "I've already given my statement to the police."

  
"I just want to get some details," the man switched his game to something a little softer, but Margo could see through the act. "No need to make it official."

  
"Fine. But it's all off record and I'm not signing anything. You want to talk here?"

  
"Would you mind comming down to the police station?"

  
She shook her head and followed his car, driving her Chevelle to the station. There she saw the regular cops cast them, or rather, her companion, apprehensive glances. Huh, this Henriksen knew how to make friends, she smirked to herself. The office they went into was clearely userped by Henriksen for a while. She looked around but then caught the FBI agent studying her and switched her attention to him.

  
"What do you want to know?" she sat across the table from him even though he didn't offer. Henriksen noted that she seemed very relaxed and her face lacked much expression beyond polite but shallow curiosity. She took off her sunglasses and pulled them up above her forehead.

"How do you know Sam Winchester?" Victor asked, studying the face of his witness.

  
"I don't, not really," she shrugged. "He works for a friend of mine, Douglas Fisher. He did some research for me on Doug's orders and I just saw him a couple of times."

  
"Did you invite him over on the day of your accident?"

  
"No, Doug brought him along as a consultant."

  
She had a bored look on her face but Henriksen was getting a gut feeling he's talking to a different person than he was observing. He was an experienced investigator and knew how important intuition was. There were things about Margo Savage that did not add up. Here in front of him sat a woman in jeans and a deep-cut peasant blouse, adorned in massive Middle-Eastern silver jewelry from the belt on her hips to her heavy earrings that jingled melodically every time she moved, attracting attention to the wearer. A woman who also wore army-issue summer tactical boots and drove a high-power muscle car. And cleaned up dried blood without getting grossed out, like a housewife swiping dust. How many socialites could do that with a straight face? Also, not everyone is so cool when encountering FBI, yet for Margo it seemed like an almost boring mundane thing — to be questioned in a police station. Or like she expected it. Before he met her, he classified her as a witness and a victim. Now Victor Henriksen was a little confused as to who exactly he was dealing with.

  
"Have you noticed any interaction between your slave and Sam Winchester prior to your accident?" he tried carefully.

  
"What kind of interaction are you talking about?" the lady arched a brow. Strangely, she hardly made any sort of gestures her counterpart could read. Victor got a feeling that whenever she made a move or changed her facial expression, it was done conciously.

  
"Did they talk? Were there times when they might have talked without any witnesses?"

  
"I think they talked at Doug's office. And yes, there were times when I saw neither of them on the day of the accident," she nodded, knowing that most probably this was mentioned in statements by other witnesses. If anything, Margo knew how to lie. Weave the lie into some truth carefully and people will eat it up gladly.

  
"I've read your statement," the agent continued conversationally. "But would you please recount the events before the accident?"

  
"Doug came over with Mr.Winchester. We were in my study. Mr. Winchester excused himself to go to the bathroom. A little while afterwards I went down to the kitchen to give orders to my servant. There I accidentally slipped on some coffee he'd spilled. I fell. I was told Mr.Wincheser called 911 for me."

  
"So you were not attacked and you have no reason to believe it was premeditated," the man's dark intelligent eyes were studying her as if she were under a microscope. Many a felon shrunk under that intense gaze, yet this woman, a civillian, by the way, was not disturbed in the least. And that alerted Agent Henriksen. She was telling the truth, he had no doubt. But she was hiding something too.

  
"Miss Savage, did you know about Mr.Winchester's relation to your slave?" no reaction except slight confusion.

  
"What relation are you talking about, Agent?"

  
"Did you know they were brothers?" he saw doubt in her eyes, like she did not believe him. If this woman was acting, she was good. Scary good. "How much do you know about your slave's past?"

  
"Mr.Henriksen," her beautiful lips twisted in an arrogant smile of a condescending slave-owner. A repulsive look on a beautiful creature. "He's a slave. I don't care about his past or his family. I only care about the use I can get out of him before his expiration date."

  
"Well, you should," Victor almost lost his game there. She managed to throw him off balance for a moment and he later wondered if that was her intent. "The Winchesters are dangerous criminals with a long track record. They managed to avoid persecution with Dean's deal, and believe me, I will find out who aided them."

  
"I bought my slave at a respectable dealership. I am sure you as a federal agent have access to that information," she sounded almost bored. "If he were a danger to a cllient of theirs, they wouldn't have sold him to me. They care about their reputation and the money they might lose if I slam them with a law suit."

  
Victor nodded as he looked through some papers in a file he had on Dean. For a second he wished the woman's eyes were a lighter color. Then he'd be able to see her pupils widen or contract, giving away information her voice and facial expression did not yeild. But Margo's eyes were so dark, there was no way of telling. He could see only what she wanted to show. Or what he wanted to see in that depth.

  
"Miss Savage, as I understand, you left the hospital in secret in the dead of night to pick your slave up from a detention center. Now why would you do that?" this time it was her turn to study him, and Victor smiled inside. He might have stumbled onto something there.

  
"I couldn't reach him at my house. It crossed my mind to check his coordinates on my phone," she answered, weighing her words, eyes fixed on Henriksen. "When I saw where he was, I got upset. I was angry that he'd been put in such a facility without my knowledge or consent."

  
"And why is that? Sorry, but you don't strike me as a caring owner," the agent smiled and saw that smug look on the woman's face again.

  
"You're right, I'm not. But I got angry and I wasn't exactly in a condition to think straight. That facility ruins stock. I was right to hurry and get him back. I paid good money for that man and when I found him there he was barely alive," she pursed her lips in anger at the people who ruined her property. Victor wondered if she'd be more emotional if someone scratched that car of hers.

  
"Was there anybody with you?" just a silent «no» in responce. "Did you see anyone who might have stolen your... property?"

  
Again, silent negative answer.

  
"Do you think Sam Winchester might have known where you went?" oh, that garnered him an amused condecending look that made Victor bristle.

  
"Agent, I do not have a habit of informing strangers of my actions," she almost laughed. What an arrogant bitch. Or a good actress portraying one. Oh, how Victor wished he could conduct an interrogation instead of an interview. This woman was hiding something, therefore she was dangerous. Was she an accomplice somehow?

  
"Thank you for your time, Miss Savage," the agent rose and escorted her to the door. "One last question, how did you address your slave?"

  
"I called him «slave» or «Dean», Agent," she answered in an even tone. Henriksen was hoping to hear some sort of emotion, but didn't.

  
"Why bother?"

  
Whatever she was, it disturbed Victor Henriksen. He thanked Margo and escorted her out of the station. As she walked away, his eyes were instinctively drawn to the swinging decorative chains on her silver belt that accentuated the sway of her hips. As far as he knew, Dean Winchester could charm women, but never actually maintained a relationship. This one though... This piece of work could actually be something. Victor Henriksen knew he would now have to look into this woman's profile.

  
Margo got into her car and drove off. When she turned the corner and lost the feeling between her shoulder blades like someone had a gun trained on her, she let out a relieved breath. It's been long since she talked to someone like she just did and it took a lot out of her. Crap, she needed to find Dean and that dumbass of a brother of his before they got themselves into more trouble. Margo pulled into a drive-through and placed an order. A few minutes later she was drawing up a plan of action.

  
She used to be good at investigating stories once. Now she'd have to remember how to do it. Margo brought up a map on her tablet and stared at it. What would be the first thing she'd do if she had a family member bleeding in her passenger seat? She knew she'd have to check local pharmacies. And maybe call a few friends on the force to find out if any cars got stolen. But where would she run? What's the destination? If it were her, she'd stay away from any roads leading to Mexico or Canada, since those would be checked first by cops. She'd lay low somwhere safe until Dean was better and this comotion died down. But where?

  
Margo brought up a copy of Dean's documents she had downloaded in PDF after the TDC incident. She's been asked to show those papers too many a time lately. There was little personal information there as she flipped through his assesment sheet, medical examination, his contract. Pretty standard stuff. Then something caught her eye. Special conditions. Sam Winchester, yada, yada, purchase price, bla, bla, bla.... Then it hit her.

  
"Black 1967 Chevrolet Impala delivered anonymously to Singer Auto Salvage, Sioux Falls?" she read out loud in disbelief. Dean said he left his car to Sam. He loved that car. Why send it to an auto salvage, in South Dakota no less?

  
She looked at the map. Almost two thousand miles. Were these guys desperate enough to transport Dean that far? Guess she'd have to find out. It was the only lead she had. For a second she gave into doubt. Was this her running after a guy? Losing her dignity? The only man Margo Savage would run after would be begging for her to put the knife down. No, this was her just giving into her predatory and posessive instincts. And lust for vengeance. She did, after all, want to kick Sam's ass for the car. Besides, this was fun. Just like the old days. Margo was still sick from the head trauma, but she's had enough of sitting around, being picked at by scavengers like a carcass. She had a trail to follow and a road to drive down in her Chevelle. Determination and a dark inspiration took over and pushed down everything else. The calm focus of a sniper and the single-mindedness of a hunter following a trail. She loved that feeling.


	17. Long arm of the law

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fortune smiles on Victor Henriksen while being a total bitch to Dean.

Three weeks it's been and all that remained of Dean's fading whipmarks were itchy pink traces. Dean was a very physical being and having the freedom to move without constant awareness of the trauma-induced rigidness felt sweet. Consequently, he was getting more and more restless. A rambler who'd always lead a nomadic lifestyle could not stay couped up in one place this long. And then Bobby called and his call made the urgency skyrocket. Because someone broke into Bobby's house.  
No demon or other supernatural freak would have been able to walk in and out of that house. No hunter would be stupid enough to intrude on Bobby's turf uninvited. And cops and bounty hunters never cared enough not to leave a mess. Yet someone came through a window and snooped around. Nothing was taken, but the stuff on Bobby's table has been looked through, the old man said. Ellen remembered a dropped call yesterday. Hunters weren't ones to panic, but they also wouldn't ignore signs of danger staring them right in the face.

  
There were still some technical issues with the system, and Ash insisted going in half-cocked might screw the whole thing up. Nevertheless, they had little choice but to try, since time was not on their side anyway. The pressure was palpable as Dean sat in Ash's room with Ellen and Sam crowding the doorway and Ash working his magic on the ring of metal and electronics around the hunter's neck. Not understanding what was being done to him set Dean's nerves on edge even more. He's been living with a sword over his head for too long now and it was weighing on him, amping his anxiety every day. Either way, this had to end.

  
All jammers down and it seemed like a race against time to crack the system open and wipe the record clean. Dean could hear familiar beeping as the collar's system started rebooting. And then it stopped. He forgot to breathe for a second and looked at Ash.

  
"Ash, man, talk to me," Dean's green eyes were blown with anxiety. He was ready to freak out. "Is it done or is it going to blow my head off?"

  
"It's down," Ash confirmed, draging the words, all consumed by whatever random assembly of letters and numbers Dean could make out on his computer screen. "But something's wrong. It should have popped open by now."

  
That's when a blinding flash went off. It stunned Dean and everyone else, so it took them a moment to realize it came from the collar. And another flash went off. Dean was seing colored spots from the brightness of it.

  
"What the fuck is this?" he yelled, stumbling to his feet.

  
"Shit, it's the emergency overdrive," Ash was typing so fast it sounded like a machine gun or something. "Guys, the GPS tracker is active and it just sent your location out to the cops. Get out of here while I try to interfere."

  
Sam grabbed Dean by the elbow and they shot out of the Roadhouse like bats out of Hell. The blinding flashes were going off at steady intervals and Dean's eyes were watering from the light now. He couldn't drive and Sam took the wheel. The Impala roared off, leaving a cloud of dust behind.

  
In the passenger seat Dean tried to cover up the goddamn light house signal that was threatenning to blind both brothers and alert anyone who saw it, but the flash generated so much heat that, covered up by fabric, the metal of the colar was beginning to burn Dean's neck. He had no idea there even was a flash, the collar always felt like a solid ring of metal, yet apparently was full of nasty surprises.

  
He pulled out a kerchief he kept around for some emergency like gagging a demon or wrapping up a wound real quick. Right now he stuffed it in between the metal and his flesh. They came to a bridge across a creek and as Sam slowed down, Dean, who had been staring intently into the distance, suddenly ordered his brother to stop.

  
"What the hell, dude?" Sam asked, but the older man just nodded forward. Sam fixed his eyes on the horizon and his heart sank. "Roadblock."

  
A couple of heartbeats they paused. There was very little room for maneuvre here, on a backroad in the middle of open farm country. They could swing the car around and race it as far as they would be able to get until they hit another roadblock. The brothers looked at each other and immidiately knew what was the only chance they had. Or rather, Dean had. He hated it. On the other hand, if Sam got caught with Dean in the car, the consequences would be worse.

  
Dean jumped out of the Impala and darted as fast as he could along the banks of the creek, using whatever scarce cover its shrubs and trees offered. He didn't see his brother race the Impala up to the police cars and turn it around so hard, smoke came from Baby's tires. He heard the distant gunshots, but by the howling of police sirens, Dean knew, Sam was still driving, drawing attention away from his brother.

  
Dean was good at running. He could run fast and he could run far, and his heart would maintain a steady pace like that of a pro athlete. He had a good head start too. He was sure he'd had put some distance between himself and the cops when about an hour later he heard them. Dogs. The high-pitched yelping of the K-9 service shepherds.

  
He wasn't packing. Had he ever indicated he was armed, the cops would shoot to kill. But up till now that didn't matter, he could always handle a few humans, armed or not. Who could have expected a pack of fucking dogs?! Raw fear washed over him. He'd been deprived of choice too long. Exposed and naked, while everyone around him was concealed and sheltered. Powerless and at the mercy of someone else's control. No matter how much he resisted it, that state made an impact, left him somewhat institutionalized. In the instant he heard the dogs he wasn't thinking like the great hunter Dean Winchester, he was thinking like a terrified runaway slave.

  
No time to lose, Dean jumped into the creek. It was only about knee-deep in that spot, but enough to throw the dogs off. He crossed the stream and climbed up the bank. The vegitation provided less and less cover as the stream was now making its way across farmland, but a hunted animal like Dean had very little choice. He had to keep moving and pray his trick won him some time.

  
It did, but only to get him to a flat open spot. No more trees or shrubs to hide in. Going into the river was also out of the question. It ran shallow and trying to escape that way would only slow him down. He stood, looking around desperately, clothes drenched from the water and his own sweat. There was a farm a little way away. Dean could try and cross the open field in hopes of maybe hiding there or stealing a car.

  
He was halfway across the field when they shot out of the green cover he left behind. Two lean tan-colored arrows with sharp black muzzles and flashing white fangs. They saw him immediately and splayed their bodies out in flight, swallowing the distance, paws barely touching the ground. Dean Winchester could run. But dogs ran faster. The first one slammed into him like a cannon ball and sent them both tumbling to the ground. The shepherd's jaws closed above his left elbow like a bear trap.

  
Dean was pushed down chest to the ground, but struggled to turn around and fight the animal off. That's when the second mutt chomped down on his right leg and held it in a vice-like grip. This second dog was either calmer or better trained, because after apprehending the human target, it just held him down with the weight of its body, ignoring thrashing attempts to throw it off. The first one was either younger, or more excitable. Or just a fucking sadist. Because it kept chewing on Dean's arm, digging in, shaking its head as if killing a rat. Still holding his arm, the goddamn mutt was dancing around, practically standing on Dean and growling excitedly. Dean stopped fighting it. The pain was overwhelming and he could hear something tear every time he moved. He was certain his muscles were severed by now.

  
It hurt so bad, Dean cried out in pain. Unwarranted tears ran down his cheeks as his flesh was sliced into by an enthusiastic beast. The cops took their sweet time getting there. Once they saw the dogs had done their job, there was no sense running in the heat. The fact that a man was being ripped apart by one of the dogs did nothing to speed them up. Dean was praying he'd pass out when he finally saw someone's boots near his face.

  
The dog on his leg released him right on command. But the second one struggled to keep its chew-toy. The K-9 handler twisted the dog around, so the grip would be less comfortable for the animal and it would let go. But the goddamn bitch held on, twisting Dean's arm with it as it moved, stepping on his head and scratching him with its claws. Dean screamed and sobbed. It was too much, he just couldn't hold back anymore. It was taking forever.

  
As soon as the dog was off, someone grabbed Dean's arms, folded them behind his back and cuffed him. While the handlers were praising the dogs, two remaining officers pulled him up carelessly, but not overly cruelly. Although anything anyone would have done to Dean right now would have been cruel. He could barely put weight on the torn leg and the blood from his arm was already dripping from his fingers. No one read him his rights, naturally, because he had none. He was just pushed forward and told to move it.

  
He was lead to the farm at gunpoint. There they waited for the patrol cars to come for them. One of the officers called someone and Dean's collar stopped flashing. Dean was forced on the ground near the dogs, the muzzle of the police rifle still trained on him. The farmer's wife came out with lemonade for the cops. Her five year old daughter carried two bowls of water for the dogs.

  
No one cared to offer Dean anything. Sure, asking for medical help would be pushing it too far, but to give him water should have been a normal thing to do. Apparently, it wasn't. A slave was not a human being, so being humane was not required. He sat in the dust, adrenalin wearing off, leaving desolation in its wake. Dean felt the heat radiate off the ground in blurry waves as his blood left dark spots on the hard-beaten dry earth. All the while people casually exchanged words and the two shepherds lapped up the water greedily. The little girl was allowed to pet the dogs and looked over the three collared creatures on the ground, doing the math grown-ups failed to.

  
"Were you bad?" the girl asked, fiddling with the modest lace on her sun-bleached dress.

  
"They think I was," Dean smirked tiredly and gestured at the cops with his head. And cringed as a warning kick from one of them landed in his thigh. He corrected himself. "Yes. Yes, I was, Miss."

  
"What'd you do?" the girl asked. Dean paused, thinking up an answer that wouldn't harm his case.

  
"Answer the little lady, slave," the cop who had his gun trained on the prisoner was bored and this situation was amuzing for him. They did get their share of runaways in this county with quite a share of workers on the surrounding land being indentured men and leased cons. Some of the runners were usually trying to get to Canada, some just running away blindly from the hardships of physical labot in these parts. So this case was nothing special, except that judging by the colar, this runaway was a bit more expensive than the usual trash. But the dogs made the capture a little fun and now this cute little girl was providing a distraction. Dean shot him a look. He hated the way this child was being tought something profoundly wrong while using him as an example.

  
"Don't I have the right to remain silent?" he grumbled. The cop moved in on him, threatening to beat the crap out of the wounded and bound captive right in front of this little girl. Instinctively, Dean flinched and tried to curl up a bit.

  
"What was that, boy?"

  
"Nothing, sir. I made a lot of trouble for my Mistress, Miss," there was a pause when he saw understanding in the girl's eyes. She shot a look at her mom. Dean guessed she was a little trouble-maker. He smiled reassuringly and the girl smiled back.

  
"Are you thirsty?" she asked.

  
Dean was parched. He was bleeding too and needed water in his body desperately. But another lazy warning kick to his hip forced him to lie.

 

"No, Miss. Thank you for your kindness."

  
"Run along now, little lady," one of the other cops said."Shouldn't be talking to that thing anyway. It's dangerous."

  
The girl glanced at the officer wearily and then, with a totally different emotion, at Dean. She waved him a short 'bye' and took off like a startled jack-rabbit. Twenty minutes later the rides came for them. Dean was loaded into the back of one of the vehicles that took him to the tiny local station. He hobbled as they lead him into an interrogation room. Been a while since he'd sat in one of these. This time he had company, though.

  
"Sammy, you OK?" his brother was sporting a shiner and Dean's instincts kicked in immediately. "The fuck happened?"

  
"Resisted arrest," Sam answered shortly and his brother rolled his eyes in exasperation. There was no need for Sam to resist the cops, but he probably was trying to draw even more attention from Dean. A lot of good that did anyhow.

  
"God, Dean, is that blood all yours? What the hell happened to you?"

  
"Couple of bitches got too close and personal," Dean smirked. But Sam was on a trajectory nothing could deflect.

  
He bellowed for help. He called and yelled at the one-way mirror. If the brothers hadn't been cuffed to the table, Dean was certain his little bro would be banging on the mirror and the door. No one came. Dean knew as much, but it took Sam a few moments to come to the same conclusion.

  
"Sam, pipe down, you're givin' me a headache!" Dean drawled lazily. He could feel exhaustion and bloodloss taking over. "Just please tell me you didn't fuck up my car."

  
"No, the Impala's fine," Sam settled down and looked worryingly at Dean. "Probably got towed to the inpound."

  
"C'mon, man, don't look at me like that," Dean said with annoyance. "I've had worse. I'm fine."

  
"Nothing about this is fine," Sam shook his head and his hair fell over his eyes. He did that head toss thing of his. Made him look like a complete kid. Dean felt old and drained. This feeling dropped on him like a ton of bricks, Dean didn't even try to fight it. Sam wanted to cry out and struggle, and all Dean felt was... fatigue.

  
He realised all too sudden that the fight for his freedom Sam started was doomed to fail from the beginning. Because Dean stopped caring what happens to him a long time ago. Dad left. Dad kept ditching his ass all the time until one day it was for good. Sammy left and was happy until he saw Dean again. Margo didn't split but they could never be together anyway, so that didn't count.

  
Dean was tired of kidding himself, tired of running in a maze without an exit and slamming his head against locked doors. Whatever crap they were in now, Sam could get out of it one way or the other. And Dean... all of this happened because he was such a neusance. If someone put a gun to his head right now, Dean would probably just press into it and wait for the shot.

  
The two young men sat quietly, undesturbed for what must have been hours. Sam was alert and fidgeting, while Dean was almost dozing with his eyes open. But whatever depressive thoughts the older hunter was drowning in, his instincts, the protective impulses that were hardwired into him, were still stronger. And they were activated as soon as the door opened and a very familiar voice said:  
"Hello, fellas, it's been a while," Henriksen's lips arched in a very satisfied smile.

  
Sam cursed under breath and Dean mumbled something that could be made out to be “You gotta be shitting me!”

  
"Agent Henriksen, as I live and breathe," Dean drawled. "You just can't stay away, can ya?"

  
"You didn't think you could outmaneuvre me with that little stunt you pulled last time, did you, Dean?" Victor's demeanor changed instantly. "Gotta give it to you, it was a nice try. You know, when you sold yourself, the case we had on Sam here fell appart. But I knew, oh, I knew I just had to wait for you two to make a wrong move."

  
"You're a hardcore fan," Dean snarked.

  
"Laugh all you want, Dean," Victor smiled. "But I got you two now."

  
"No you don't," Sam interfered, eyes narrowed in hate. "Dean is outside of your jurisdiction."

  
"Ah, you got yourself a lawyer already Dean?" Dean just glared in response. Henriksen's piercing gaze was fixed on him now. "Unfortunately, that's true. But I talked to your owner, you see. She didn't exactly strike me as a soft-hearted woman. Maybe we could come to an understanding. Maybe I can even get her to forfeit you to the state."

  
Dean just huffed and twitched the corner of his mouth dismissevly. Henriksen was still studying him. He'd have to try every approach to break into the mind of these perps.

  
"We'll just have to wait a little. She'll be here in a few hours. She's in Nebraska," Dean perked up, which, in retrospect, was the wrong thing to do, because the fed picked up on it instantly. "Wonder why that is, by the way. It's a strange coinsidence how all three of you are in the same area. I think Miss Savage and I are going to have a very long talk."

  
"Good luck with that," Dean all but laughed. "You're seriously gonna need it."

  
"Luck is on my side now, Dean," Henriksen switched his attention to Sam. "Two counts of grand theft. Trafficing stolen chattle across state lines. Resisting arrest and assault of a police officer. Well done, Sam."

  
"Sam didn't steal me!" Dean reared up. "You want to blame someone, blame me."

  
"Then it's aiding and harboring a runaway slave."

  
"Dean, shut up," Sam hissed and looked hard at the fed. "Nothing he says can be taken into account. I'll answer all your questions. Just get him some help before he bleeds out."

  
"Sorry, but no," Victor was very pleased that this time he had a lot of leverage to pressure both these psychos. -"Like you said, without his owner's say so we really can't do anything."

  
"He's a human being and he's bleeding out right in front of you."

  
"How about all the people he let bleed?" Victor snapped into rage in a flash. "You remember those?"

  
"Sam, can't you see he's yankin' your chain?" Dean raised his tired voice. The wounds left by the dogs were throbbing and burning up now and he was so done with all of this. "Quit helping him."

  
Victor could see Sam fall back in line at his brother's command and once again reaffirmed his assumption that it was Dean who was in the lead, collar or no. There was a moment of silence that allowed Victor to change tactics. Both criminals were already shaken up for this to have a chance to work.

  
"How about this, guys. I need information. You start talking and I might make llife a little easier for you."

  
Dean arched a brow. It's not like Henriksen was willing to talk before. The dude used to be hell bent on just locking them up and throwing away the key.

  
"What do you want to know?" he asked cautiously.

  
"I want to know who recruited you. And how the hell you managed to shut the signal down."

  
"So that's it," Dean eased back in his chair. "After bigger fish these days, agent? We're not enough for you anymore?"

  
"Dean, just shut up," Sam was staring at Henriksen as if he wanted to kill the man with the power of his mind. "We're not talking until we get a lawyer."

  
"Fine. You'll get your lawer, Sam," Henriksen replied after a moment's consideration. "After I talk to Dean's owner. Get comfortable, boys. It's going to be a long night."

  
A long night of slow cooking in this room without water or medical care, spiced up by questioning attempts from Henriksen, they both knew the drill. Dean wiped all expression from his face and carefully arranged his body so that the injured limbs were not carrying any weight. He threw his head back for a second and let the hollowness inside take over his mind. Sam was more agitated, still aching for a fight, sulking and pouting. But being a slave this long, Dean developed a few defense mechanisms no free man had. If there's one thing he's been tought well, it was how to check out and go with the flow when nothing was in his control.


	18. Belladonna

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cavalry arrives, but not everyone is happy with the way the situation is resolved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, had a lot of work and just couldn't find time and strength to finalize this chapter. Anyhow, the chapter is named after a UFO song "Belladonna" for this line: "Out of reach, out of touch, how you've learned to hate so much".

Ellen and Bobby were standing outside the police station. Ellen was smoking yet another cigarette. Neither of them felt like talking anymore. The boys have been inside for more than twelve hours now and little information as to their fait was available. The presence of the feds wasn't all too promising. But Ellen was still hoping they'd be able to bail Sam out. It was in the dead of night when a well-kept black Chevelle 454 came barreling down the road like a fire breathing dragon. The roaring metal beast swooped into the parking lot with a "fuck y'all attitude".

  
At first Ellen though the person who got out of the car was a hunter. She was dressed the part, and the face looked somewhat familiar. Ellen struggled to remember it, but just couldn't quite figure it out. Recognition sparked in the eyes of the newcommer as she glanced in their direction. But there was no friendliness in the way this woman looked at them. Like she was taking aim. The girl was sickly pale, dark grey shadows lay around her eyes and mouth, yet the threat radiating from her left no doubt as to its gravity. She glided past them, drilling them with her eyes with the inner force of someone who should have been carrying at least a Luisville slugger. Ellen half expected gun shots to follow from inside.

  
A minute after the tough chick walked into the station, a cherry red Jag pulled up and a very respectable gentleman in a very, very expensive suit stepped out. His suitcase was probaby worth more than the Roadhouse and the salvage yard combined. Ellen suddenly connected the dots. The face she just saw got its name. A chill ran through the huntress.

  
Margo strode past the two people she recognized from the photo she found at that hellish house in Sioux Falls. The red-neck in a trucker cap was Robert Singer. Auto salvage owner and a freaking hardcore occultist nutcase. The woman had to be Ellen Harvelle. Owner of some run-down biker bar located in the middle of nowhere up the Devil's ass. That place was locked when she got there, but she's seen enough. Unfortunately she didn't get inside, because an alert came in that her runaway had been apprehended.

  
These people were dangerous and probably turned Dean into the shrink wet dream he was now. Margo was not feeling generous. If she could, she'd have them locked up instead of the two dumb kids she came for. Inside she walked up to the vending machine and got a bottle of water. Alan Shapiro, the attorney she asked to fly into Broken Bow and then drive to this godforsaken one-horse town, joined her shortly.

  
When the two of them were escorted to the interrogation room it took all of Margo's training not to scream. Dean was a bloody mess. Again. His sleeve was torn and stiff with dried blood. Through the rips and tears of the fabric deep seeping wounds could be seen. She couldn't quite see, but his leg was in pretty much the same condition. The cop that came in with them was a traditionalist. The slave wasn't showing proper respect, so the upkeeper of the law pulled him off the chair and planted the butt of the rifle between the prisoner's shoulder blades.

  
"Thank you, officer," she spoke over Sam's pained cry. Margo did not know how she managed to sound so casual.

  
She opened the the bottle of water, took a sip and walked over to inspect Dean. Her hand gently landed on his face and she softly stroked his stubbled skin with her thumb. A barely noticeable gesture for everyone present, but it gave Dean volumes of information. He didn't resist when she checked his eyes and teeth, moving onto the injuries on his limbs.

  
"They siced the dogs on you?" she asked in a voice so low, only Dean could make out the words and the underlying sorrow.

  
"It's not as bad as it looks, Ma'am," their eyes met. A few heartbeats was all it took for the two to see everything the other needed to say, but couldn't.

  
"Even a hero gets a bullet in the chest, huh?" her smile was bitter and crooked, but if anyone could appreciate a little rock and humour to relieve a tense exchange, it was Dean. The murky green in his eyes cleared into its regular emerald for a moment so brief it was easy to miss, as if a ray of sunshine breaking through heavy clouds.

  
Margo straightened up and handed Dean the bottle.

  
"Take it slow," she instructed quietly. The way he was looking at her was wrecking her heart. Like she was an angel that descended from Heaven. She did not deserve that look, that childlike openness and faith. Sam had the right idea, though. Margo didn't know that the way a silent dialogue had just taken place twisted Sam's insides. It was like watching an intruder flip through your family album, laying hands on something sacred and personal. He and Dean had that kind of connection. Not even Dad had the same. And here was this parasitic bitch tapping into something she had no right to. Oh, if looks could kill!

  
Victor Henriksen stormed in in his usual brash maner. He looked the four people over, saw Dean kneeling. He had to do a double take when he recognized Margo, she looked so different from when they last talked. Not just the clothes,but the stern look, the cold killer expression. The lawyer was none other than Alan Shapiro, a well known heavyweight champ in the courtroom. Henriksen was impressed and also a bit alarmed now. These were two sharks that just might deprive him of his prize catch.

  
"Agent," Margo nodded. "Allow me to introduce Mr. Alan Shapiro. He will be representing Sam's interests as well as mine."

  
The look on Sam's face must have been something else, because Dean was silently gesturing at the big-time courtroom star and grimacing like a monkey. Sam nodded, eyes wide with shock. "Yeah, this guy is good". Dean seemed very relieved.

  
"You hired a lawyer to represent Sam Winchester?"

  
"I hired a lawyer to settle this little mishap, yes."

  
"It's not a little mishap. Sam is charged with two counts of grand theft, trafficing stolen chattle across state borders...."

  
"Dean, did Sam steal you?" Margo didn't look his way, but he knew how to play along and knew how to trust her.

  
"No, Mistress, I ran away. And I took your car."

  
"Then it's harboring a runaway..."

  
"I'm sorry, Agent, is there proof that my client was harboring this runaway?" Alan Shapiro intervened. "As far as I know, when my client was detained, the slave was nowhere near him."

  
"Near enough," Victor tightened his jaw.

  
"Circumstantial evidence, won't stand in court," the big shot lawyer dismissed lazily, like shooeing a fly on a hot day.

  
"There's still resisting arrest and obstructing justice," Victor persisted.

  
"And we just came from a meeting with Judge Turner and the DA. An out of court descision has been reached, Sam will pay a fine. That's it."

  
Victor stood there for a second. The Winchesters were slipping through his fingers again. He turned his rage on the one responsible.

  
"Do you have any idea who you are about to let out on the streets?" He threw a file on the table and grabbed a few crime scene photos. "This is what they did! If they are turned loose, there will be more blood and it will be on your hands! And I'm not even getting to the grave desecrations and the armed robbery. These men are grade A psycopaths!"

  
"Watch your tone, agent," the lawyer warned.

  
But Margo's face was calm and blank. God was her witness, she'd seen enough of such images. Taken quite a few of them herself. The memory of the stench at the murder scene, at an exhuming of a mass grave suddenly flooded her mindspace. That stench would cling to you for days afterwards, no mater how many hours you spent scrubbing yourself raw in the shower. She shied away from those recollections like a skittish horse, already feeling the smell of decay fill her airways. But reality reaked of blood too. Dean's blood.

  
"Don't try to manipulate me with blood, agent," casting an unimpressed glance at the photos she spoke firmly and quietly, a sure sign of the intensity of her anger. "I've seen more than my share. And I know a little about psychopaths too. Enough to be able to tell that these two are not them. You want to build a case against Sam, you better start gathering hard evidence, because tonight he's walking out of here a free man."

  
If Dean could grab Margo and kiss her right now, he would. He quickly looked Sam's way and couldn't help beaming and grinning like a six-year old. Sam rolled his eyes, wondering why Dean failed to see, once these two predators hash it out, the winner would turn on them. In his opinion, Margo wasn't saving anyone, just being territorial.

  
"If you have any common sence, press charges against Sam and let him be prosecuted and forfeit Dean to the state. Or next time you won't get away with just a concussion," Victor tried just one last time. His last words came out like an open threat. Margo did not respond well to threats.

  
"Forfeit Dean?" her tone was calm, but Dean knew her enough to hear big trouble brewing. "Do I look like I forfeit anything?"

  
"He has information we need. The way his signal was blocked might indicate a threat to...."

  
"A faulty collar is hardly a national security threat," the lawyer intervened once more. "Miss Savage will remove it and return it to the company."

  
"Dean should not have been collared in the first place!" Victor persisted. "Not with those charges against him. I want to know who was involved! I want to know who let a maniac be sold and escape justice!"

  
"Until a detainee is proven guilty, he has full right to sign himself over into bondage, if he is of sound mind," the counselor stated coldly. "The medical evaluation conducted upon his sale also included a psychiatric examination. None of its results indicate he is what you say he is."

  
"This is bull, they would approve anyone as long as they can make a buck off the sale! I am not letting a serial killer get off this easy..."

  
"The man is a slave for life!" Margo hissed. "You got what you wanted. Not a month ago he was almost beaten to death! Today he's been shredded by fucking dogs! Dean, answer the agent. You rockin' the dolce vita?"

  
"My life is living hell," Dean readily provided completely deadpan. Margo cast him a sideway glance. A warning not to get too cocky. Dean quickly turned his attention to the floor, but kept darting his eyes at the people fighting over him and Sam when he thought no one was looking.

  
"Agent, upon careful examination of the documents on Miss Savage's slave I must insist that the deal he made was completely within legal boundaries," Shapiro could tell Margo was getting worked up and moved her aside from the confrontation. "Should you want to challenge Miss Savage's claim over this man, I suggest you call me first. Miss Savage, I must insist that any further communication with the law enforcement be done through me."

  
"You heard the man, agent," she nodded. "We're done here."

  
"This isn't over," Victor spat out looking her square in the eyes. "From now on you better watch yourself. One step out of line and no hot shot lawyer will be able to save you."

  
"We'll see," Margo stiffened, like a tightly-wound coil ready to spring loose.

  
"Agent, I advise you against any threats towards any of my clients," Alan sent the fed a stern look. A minute later both men were gone in order to settle the paprework. A deputy came in and uncuffed Sam, but the young man didn't leave. He and Margo weren't done. She asked the officer to uncuff Dean as well and give them a minute. She and Sam helped Dean up and onto a chair.

  
"We need to get him to a hospital. Now," Sam spoke urgently.

  
"You've done enough, Jolly Green," Margo flipped to attack mode in a flash. "I'm holding you personally responsible for all of this."

  
"Ma'am, please," Dean pleaded. "It wasn't Sam's fault!"

  
"Dean, shut the fuck up before I sell you down the river! I just spent an hour and a half talking to a very conservative judge who suggested I castrate you. Said it does wonders for a slave's temperament!" the woman's rage turned onto him and away from Sam. Margo quickly realised what he was doing and gritted angrily. "Oh, and you and I have a lot to talk about too, my little runaway. But right now you shut your mouth and bleed quietly or I will change my mind and file a lawsuit so big, Sam's grandchildren will be paying it out!"

  
Dean shrunk back, lowering his eyes and deflating, just like when John chastised him for some supposed shortcomming. It was painfiul for Sam to see with all clarity that Dean had been enthralled long before he was ever collared. Somewhere in a very dusty corner in the back of his mind a pang of guilt stirred. How many times he himself capitalized on Dean's blind devotion and complete loyalty that made him basically a slave and a whipping boy for his family? Sam was not Dean's saviour, he was an accomplice in his father's crime. For years he witnessed the process of subduing and conditioning of his brother into an unquestioning soldier. By the time Sam was old enough to see it for what it was, they were all in too deep. And Sam just turned tail and left his dysfunctional little family in the dust. Twice. But these revelations had to go through a lot of filters before they got to the surface. So much, in fact, that the anger and blame that should have been directed at Sam himself got redirected at Margo.

  
"Don't you dare talk to him like that," Sam was shaking with outrage. Not just at this obnoxious bitch, but at Dean for his sudden submissiveness, and at their father who did everything to beat this behavior into his eldest. "You have no right to abuse him!"

  
"Abuse him? He never got hurt before you showed up! Do the math, dumbass!"

  
"If you have any shred of decency left, you let him go now! He is a human being, no one should own him or sell him, or force him to do things he doesn't want to do."

  
"Don't you make me sound like a fucking rapist," her lips were drawn into a stiff thin line now. "Why don't you face up to the fact that he got hurt because you were a jealous, petulant child, who thought he was the only one who had the right to his brother!"

  
"I'm his family! You're just some thrill-seeker with a bunch of cash who gets high on danger and power! He's just a toy for you and I won't let you poison my brother's life!"

  
"Jesus, break it up you two! Enough!" Dean struggled up. This scene was killing him, like the times Dad and Sam fought and Dean somehow blamed himself for it. Except this time it really was his fault, and he was hating all the commotion around him. "Are you guys forgetting where we are? Now let's get the hell out of here before you get us into more trouble."

  
Margo glowered at them both. Sam was scowling, though a bit surprised by his brother's outburst. But the fighting stopped. Sam made an attempt to hold Dean up. But Margo remembered they had a show to keep playing. She reminded both men of it, still Sam was reluctant to go through the doors first.

  
"Let him go, Sam," Margo said softly. It was obvious she was referring to more than just a physical motion. "For his sake, let him go."

  
It was probably the hardest thing ever for Sam. He broke away from Dean and thought his heart would start to bleed. He didn't even look at Margo when he finally headed for the door. Once they were alone, Margo and Dean faced each other. They both appeared so... ancient. The ages old exhaustion saturated their bones and a very odd feeling of complete mutual understanding passed between them, like a breath of wind. They were both barely holding upright, truth be told. And there was one last effort to be made.

  
They walked out of the station after Margo signed all the papers Al Shapiro slid under her pen. She bought another bottle of water from the vending machine and shoved it into Dean's hands. He drank as he limped like a "Thriller" video reject after her at the proper two paces back and one to the side. When they stepped outside, Sam, Bobby and Ellen were there. Margo surveyed them with that stone-cold blankness that gave off a stronger warning than any burning glare ever could. She positioned herself between the three hunters and Dean as the latter struggled past and to the car without any additional drama. She heard his step falter, he must have paused to look at his family. Margo let it slide. Dean was smart enough not to provoke a scene and just kept moving towards the glossy black gas guzzler he was about to soil with his blood again.

  
Margo took note of how Ellen's eyes filled with tears at the sight of the horrible condition Dean was in. Bobby's hard look over the older woman's head when he pulled her in to comfort her. If anyone had spoken, the fragile silence that devided these highly strung people would have erupted with a devastating effect. Everyone present could feel it and kept their mouths shut. For now the battle was over, there was little anyone could do right there and then to remedy the situation. The defeated needed time to regroup, all they could do was watch the winner take away her busted up prize. Just before leaving Margo remembered something. She ambled over to Sam and before he could even grasp what was to come, she kicked him hard right in the shin.

  
"That's for my car, you dick!" she stormed off, got herself and her companion into the Chevelle and drove off, spectacularly leaving burnt tire tracks on the hot pavement and flipping a bitch right outside a police station.


	19. Coming back to life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Healing is not an easy process. Neither is personal growth. Both Margo and Dean have to deal with that as some tough decisions must be made. Whether they are the right ones, no one knows, but change is inevitable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long, but there is a lot of stuff that Dean and Margo go through here, and I had to make sure the wording was right. Oof, these two are so messed up! But I guess that's why they have that special connection.  
> The name of the chapter is a great Pink Floyd song, its general mood is a bit lighter than the chapter, but the meaning is spot on. These lines from it came to mind when thinking of the soundtrack:
> 
> I took a heavenly ride through our silence,  
> I knew the moment had arrived  
> For killing the past and coming back to life.
> 
>  
> 
> P.S.: The last chapter is almost done!

Dean's memory of following events was a bit blurry. He was dragged to a local hospital and told “to sit his ass right there and not move a fucking inch” while Margo unleashed terror on the sleepy medical personnel. The physician on duty tried to refuse treating a slave, and was quickly informed of the honor that was bestowed upon him to treat anything belonging to Margo. The staff working at the small town hospital were not the people who could withstand the onslaught that rained on them. Dean did not know where she was getting the energy to keep fighting tonight, but there she was, buldozing over law enforcement, throwing her weight around in a way he knew she hated and bullying people only to help him. He fidgited from the discomfort of being in the center of anyone's attention, but her caring enough to push and shove things along was touching.

  
Soon, his torn and filthy clothes were cut away. The dried blood made the fabric stiff and it stuck to the edges of some nastier gashes. The dirt was quickly washed off, and obviously the nurses enjoyed the process a bit too much. Dean's eyes kept straying to Margo, half in hope she'd notice, half in fear she would. But she seemed to be on the verge of passing out, just sitting motionless and glass-eyed in the corner. After all she's done for him, Dean would not dare bother her because of something as normal as someone taking a little advantage of his situation. After all, he was just being too sensitive, everything was kept within boundaries. Looks and accidental brushes were nothing to get worked up about.

  
His wounds got cleaned and stitched up, and the doc even used anesthetics on him, which a slave had to appreciate. He got all the medication and fluids that would have otherwise been given to a free man. Hooked up to a dropper, Dean was settled in for the night in a hospital bed for regular people, not a rusty cot in the slave section. That probably had something to do with the fact that “the Queen Margot” insisted on staying by his bedside and no one risked offending the snarling dragon that dragged Dean in here with a suggestion to spend the night in the slave ward when there was plenty of room available in the freeman ward.

  
He wasn't given anything in place of his old clothes though and Dean wasn't sure if that was because they didn't want to waste any more resources on a slave or because the nurses needed something good to look at to make up for the hassle. Dean was pretty used to public nudity by now, so he was surprised how exposed he felt this time. It didn't seem like his owner was punishing him by letting strangers ogle him, she just seemed to be somewhere else in her mind to care about leaving her slave nude. Either way, Margo didn't ask for anything to cover Dean up, so he just hid under the blanket and tried to ignore the nurse that was eyeing him the most. He had a feeling Margo would not be amused if she noticed, even if he didn't flirt back. So far he'd seen no indication of her being the jealous type, but at least posessiveness would show Dean she cared. It would be the wrong kind of caring, but hey, he wasn't picky.

 

The way she was looking at him now, when they were finally alone, was dark and heavy. Dean squirmed a little, not able to tell why he's being given the cold shoulder after she just effectively stood up for him and slammed her fist down on a very long-running fight. It was hard, especially because now there was a much deeper bond between him and this woman, yet there was still something standing between them. It was confusing, and Dean was just too worn out to figure it out right now. She was obviously pissed but holding back, so Dean decided to play it safe and be good and respectfull. He owed Margo that much.

  
"They said this crap will take at least eight more hours," she pointed at the dropper stand while trying to settle comfortably into a chair. "You feelin' OK?"

  
"Just peachy, Ma'am," he smirked.

  
"I feel half-past dead," Margo grumbled and asked. "Before anyone here relaxes, do I need to request a kit for you? Sorry, for being so straight-forward, but I rather not get a case of the nasties later on...."

  
"What kit?" he could see she was grumpy, but dared ask anyway.

  
"STDs, Dean," she rolled her eyes in annoyance, but the general tone was quite conversational. "I won't be mad, I just have to know for health reasons."

  
There was no jealousy, just a casual assumption that he whored around while he was running free and now needed to be checked over before use by his rightful owner. All with a touch of cynicism from someone who was dead tired and recently opened herself up to him too much. As much as Dean loved when his sexual prowess was appreciated, this fucking burned. He was OK with being a player (the word “manwhore” had been used before, but Dean preferred more flattering definitions of his womanizing habits), but Margo thinking that he'd sleep around.... On second thought, it wasn't like they were in a relationship, and Dean really was slutty, so it shouldn't have felt as insulting as a bitch slap.... Damn, this was hurtful and confusing!

  
"There was no one," Dean tried to let her know what he really meant, but thought he'd failed. He couldn't tell her that in his mind they were together now, because that hadn't crystalized into a coherent thought yet. He just wanted her to know he cared too much to look at other women, had he been presented with the chance. He silently scolded himself for being so pathetic. Maybe he was stupid, maybe too beat, but he failed to say what he meant.

  
"Do I need to cuff you to the bed?" Margo asked in an icy tone as she kicked off her boots, stretched out her long legs and turned on the TV. Funny how she seemed to own whatever space she was in, even when forced to occupy the least comfortable spot, like a chair in a hospital room.

  
"Only if you want some kinky fun, Ma'am," it was obvious from his dead tone of voice that the kinkiest thing he could do now was fall asleep. A flight risk he wasn't.

  
From the look Margo cast Dean, he thought she was about to take him up on his word. Next thing he knew, she strolled over to his bed and leaned in for a kiss. A gentle, soothing, long kiss that did not require further action. Exhausted as he was, Dean was eternaly grateful to her. She found him and dragged his and Sam's asses out of the fire. She let Sam go, and Dean owed her so much now. If she so desired, he'd let her poke his fresh wounds with a knife. But all she wanted was a kiss. And Dean tried to convey his gratitude, his happiness to see her, the relief that she was OK and his tenderness in that kiss. She must have gotten the answers her lips were seeking, because when she moved away, her features softened.

  
They spent the night in the quiet of the hospital. Margo passed out in the chair and in the morning stepped out to get Dean some clothes. After breakfast they moved on. Didn't get far, because the only capable driver started falling asleep and they were forced to find a motel before she crashed her precious car. They shared a bed and even though Margo was barely talking to him, acting detached and distracted, after ten hours of sleep she took advantage of Dean's horizontal position. Despite being worn out and hurt, Dean, to his eternal pride, still had the right to say he was damn good. Nonetheless, he was happy to fall asleep in the car not half an hour later.

  
He really did not yet have a plan of where to go from here. He wasn't planning on living his life out as a captive, but then he had to figure out how to cut loose without hurting Margo. If he were honest with himself, he'd have to admit he did not want to part ways. But he wasn't, as usual, Dean's communication with his inner self had room for improvement. So the hunter simply settled for laying low and healing for the time being and crossing the bridge when he got to it.

  
At home things fell into an awkward pattern. Margo barely aknowledged his presence, acting aloof and detached all the time. She hardly ever gave Dean an order and that was only when his bandages needed changing. He was lost a bit at first, but then decided to keep the usual routine up without any orders. He didn't even need much approval, just a little indication of warmth, just a recognition of his presence there. But outside of playing doctor or rolling in the hay, he got nothing. Bless him, he tried hard. The more he healed, the harder he strived to be good. Never in his life had he applied himself more to serve so well and observe all the rules for a house slave. No matter how often he disgustedly called himself a needy little bitch in his mind, he could not force himself to yearn less. The distance between them was killing Dean. Especially when it came to sex.

  
If when she'd just bought him Margo had issues with using her acquisition to its full potential, she was more than making up for it. Dean was seeing more action now than he had in a very long time, Margo seemed insatiable. Sure, it was never on his terms and had the emotional content of a one night stand, but it was such a striking contrast to their regular frosty interactions.

  
He'd be cosumed by whatever task he had to do, then feel a demanding hand slip under his clothes or snake through his hair. And Dean responded to it like a horny teen or a well-trained concubine. Always ready and eager, always hungry for Margo, like an addict for a drug. The feel of her body, the way she moved, the sweet smell of her skin – all of it was intoxicating. Whatever few defenses he had left, he shut them down willingly and surrendered.

  
As good as all of that should have sounded, the lack of an emotional connection in all that left a negative residue. Like he was being used, like whatever he was feeling was one-sided. Dean was no chick to cry over that, but it still rubbed him the wrong way. It was like a splash of ice cold water when you're basking in the sun. He'd open himself up to her, try his best to please her and immerse himself in the pleasure she brought, only to be discarded right after they were done. The sensual, passionate love-making made him believe she cared. Then the distance between them outside of sex, its contrast with previous warmth, the inpenetrable wall of coldness threw him off balance completely. He kept guessing, looking for a sign that would define things one way or the other. But the pendulum wouldn't stop and Dean just kept sinking deeper and deeper.

  
He couldn't talk to her about it even if he were free. He also couldn't rebel or throw a tantrum for obvious reasons. So he started pushing the lines in smaller ways, tried taking liberties to see when he'd cross a line. It got him nowhere. When he got too bold and demonstratively went on a strike for a day, Margo just shrugged and moved on. It made Dean feel even worse than if she beat the crap out of him.

  
When she came down to watch a movie that night, he apologized and confessed he tried to provoke her. He came so close to begging to be punished, it scared him. Margo just jerked her shoulder and let him back on the couch, arranging him so she could lay in his arms. Not exactly cuddling, more like a live cussion, but Dean was ready to accept even that little scrap of actual closeness. The woman fell asleep as Dean's fingers rubbed circles in her wavy disheveled hair, where hot spots of pain could be felt through her skin.

  
This strange disposition continued for as long as Dean's wounds needed to heal. The man would do chores and make sure Margo was fed and given her own meds, and she would change his bandages and clean up infected parts of the wounds. The injuries were not as bad as he thought, probably because of the thick fabric of his clothes that he heard tearing when the dogs ripped into him. They healed pretty well, even the deepest gashes did not cause serious damage to the muscle tissue. Scarring was not something Dean worried about. After the bandages were removed and Margo's attention was no longer required, Dean felt almost sorry for the loss of her care.

  
A few days after that Margo came into his small room. It was late in the evening and she was carrying a bottle of scotch and two glasses. The reflex he developed recently sent an electric tingle down Dean's spine and settled into a warm tugging in the bottom of his abdomen. Feeling blood rush below the belt, Dean was both angry at himself and starved for Margo's touch. She seemed oblivious to the effect she had on him. That effect was magnified by the encroachment on Dean's territory.  
She never actually stepped inside what was his private living space before. Of course, Dean had no right to privacy, but appreciated the luxury and sort of got used to the illusion of having a corner all to himself. This intrusion was somehow invasive in a way it shouldn't have felt. In the end, everything in the house belonged to this woman, him included. There was nothing here she could violate, yet that's how it felt to Dean, leaving him raw and open and, frighteningly, terribly aroused.

  
Margo poured two very generous portions into the glasses and handed one to Dean. She sat down on his bed and gestured for him to do the same. They drank quietly for a while, Margo sorting some things out before speaking and Dean just sitting there, poised and on edge, drinking excellent single malt and not even feeling the taste. Then Margo looked at him with those deep velvety eyes and spoke.

  
"Dean, I have to know something. I don't believe for a second that what that dick Henriksen said is true. But I've been to your friend Singer's house. And I've seen the little sigils you left all over here. And your tat. I need to know what the hell that's all about."

  
Wow, she did not ease into it and Dean almost choked.

  
"I'm not a satanist or some Kool Aid drinking nutter, Ma'am, I swear," he tried.

  
"I know that too, Dean," she smiled sadly. "I've seen enough cold-blooded murderers, fanatics and nutcases to know the difference between them and you. But you are something. I want to know what."

  
"Um, when our mom was killed," he tried to tread carefully, like moving through a minefield. "Our dad started looking for answers outside of the conventional norms. Sam and I grew up with that. But it's nothing dark, it's not like we used voodoo curses or performed satanic rituals. There are Wiccans and psychics and everyone is OK witht hem, so...."

  
"Dean, stop, you're babbling," she halted his quickly accelarating speech. Dean dropped his eyes. More than anything, he wanted to tell Margo the truth. He wanted to be honest with her, so she'd see him for what he was, be put at ease about his past and also know what really happened to her in Africa. Jesus, just a little while ago he was the one giving Sam shit about lying to Jessica and his college friends, and now was himself lying his ass off to a woman he cared about. But this was such a wrong time for earth-shattering revalations!

  
"Dean, I can accept shamanism, or Wicca, or paganism or superstition. But I saw the phones labeled with the names of government agencies in that man's home," her words fell heavily. Dean lifted hunted green eyes at her, not knowing how to make things right. Margo tuned into his discomfort and layed a hand on his cheek gently.

 

"Bobby has a lot of connections. He helps people, consults them. But it's all unofficial, all secret," he hated himself for twisting and concealing the truth. In his book it was the same as lying. Dean closed his eyes and sighed.

  
Margo, like many people, knew there were civilian consultants for the law enforcement. She knew some crimes revolved around the occult. She could also tell by Dean's face that he was bullshitting her.

  
"Right. Whatever. I just want to know what kind of danger you're in," Margo's fingertips were now caressing Dean's face, gliding gently along his cheek, down his neck and up into his short hair. Dean was melting into the touch, eyes still closed, features becoming smooth and peaceful for just a little while.

  
"Bobby is not a danger to me, I swear. He's like a father to me," Dean opened his eyes and looked at Margo, praying she believed him. She stilled her hand and then removed it, leaving Dean ready to chase after the touch.

  
"That's good. That you have someone beside your brother to call family," she sounded bitterly sad and Dean started to worry. - But those closest to us may damage us more severely than anyone else.

  
"Why? Why does it matter? It's not like I can see anyone if you don't allow it...."

  
"Because I don't know what to do with you, Dean," she sighed exasperatedly and took in a big gulp of scotch.

  
"Do with me?" now he was getting scared. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

  
"It means I can't keep you without harming the both of us," the sorrow in her words was wrecking Margo's voice. "When you signed off your entire life you were in a very bad place, I get it. But you won't get better if you stick with me. I can barely keep my own head above water, let alone help anyone else. Damaged goods, a false hope, I can't keep pretending that I have what you need. I can't do that to you. You are so much more than you will ever be if you stay here."

  
"What are you suggesting?" his voice betrayed him, breaking miserably.

  
"Well, I can't free you here, but I can take you outside the US, let you go there. Hell, I'll even sing “Born free” as you walk off into the wild," she smirked and hit the booze again. "It's not right to let you go while you're on this path of great self-destruction, but, really, I have no idea what else to do."

"You could sell me to Sam...."

  
Margo looked at him and shook her head.

  
"No. Consider me petty, but I will not give your brother even more claim over you than he already has."

  
Dean hung his head. All of his life he's existed in very exclusive relationships. Like bubbles. There was one with Dad and Sam, then with just Sam. Every one of them ruptured, leaving him floundering. Now there was one with just Margo, and it was happenning all over again. Like the fragile and shaky world he managed to build was being ripped away from him. Dean downed almost all of his whiskey in one go.

  
"You are not harming me, you're the best thing that happened to me in god knows how long," Dean slammed those words down, laying cards on the table.

  
"Shows you got low standards," her laugh was absolutely humorless and hollow.

  
"You said you're afraid I might harm you. Is this still about what Henriksen said?" Dean switched arguments a little. "Because you gotta believe me, I'd never hurt you or let...."

  
"Oh, I believe that," she was examinig the light flowing through the dark honey colored whiskey in her glass. "And it wasn't exactly what I said. You wouldn't hurt me, but if you stick around, it will harm me. Even more than now."

  
"I'm sorry for the accident, and for leaving you behind," Dean slid off the edge of the bed and knelt at her feet. Not like a slave, but like a man trying to console someone he loves. "I promise I never meant for any of that to happen. And I followed the news. I'm so sorry for all the trouble I caused...."

  
"That's not what I'm talking about. I made a mistake, Dean," she was on the verge of breaking. "I overinvested in you. Not just the money, but time, effort. Emotions. I am too attached to you now. I can't afford to be more invested than... I know too well how that ends. One who gives more, loses. I won't make that mistake twice."

  
When you jump into the water and land flat on your stomach, it feels like you're hitting solid concrete. Air gets knocked out of your lungs so hards, they burn. You might even brake something or lose conciousness. That was how hard the revelation hit Dean. All of this time he was wondering if Margo cared for him at all as a man while she... cared too much?! And it was her who needed reassurance from him? Fuck, whatever he said at this point, it wouldn't hold any weight. It was too late for that. But to make things worse Margo kept tearing new wounds in his very soul.

  
"You are already invested like that, so you should know. I'm not stupid enough to try and pry you from your brother. I don't want his place, naturally, I understand you two needed such a close bond to survive. But I don't think you can give me as much. He will always come first, and I can't trust someone who is not... not into.... I want to feel safe, Dean. I haven't felt safe in years. When I found you, I thought I felt it, but.... I was wrong. I want security. My place in your life will never be secure enough."

  
Dean was frozen with horror. His worst nightmares were surfacing. He found out he was loved by this awesome woman only to be cast out immediately after. He was being told he wasn't trustworthy or capable of providing security for someone he loved. It was complete and ultimate failure for him. It got more confusing, because unlike others who he'd failed in his life, Margo wasn't disappointed in him, she was flat out telling him she loved him, but it wasn't making things better!  
Before he could find anything appropriate to say, Margo reached behind her back and pulled something that looked like a gun from the belt of her jeans. On second glance it turned out to be a pneumatic injector. Dean flinched away on instinct, but Margo made no move to hurt him. She put the injector down and reached for Dean with both her hands. He leaned back in. Margo held his face lovingly and planted a soft chaste kiss on his lips. Then her hands slid to his collar and down his chest. She switched her attention to the control device on her wrist and entered some long combination. Next thing he knew, the collar popped open with a low snake-like hiss. Gentle hands removed it, as Dean himself was too overwhelmed to believe this was all real. Finally, his neck was free. Margo drew herself closer and laid a trail of kisses down his neck-line, driving Dean absolutely insane with the intensity of all these sensations.

  
"You're free to go, Dean," she spoke softly and gestured towards the injector on the bed. "There's an active chip in there. In case you get into trouble... or worse... and you want me to know about it. I will always come for you. And keep the card. The limit's been removed. You're gonna need money to start up your life again. Now, take whatever you need and go."

  
"Fan-fucking-tastic! You're throwing me out just like that?" he choked out in disbelief. All he ever wanted was freedom. And now he was being given that, it seemed wrong.

  
"I'm letting you go to find what you need most. Yourself. Promise me you'll figure out how to love and forgive yourself, Dean. I'm sorry for having failed you. I'm sorry for everything."

  
She got up to leave and Dean moved with her in one motion. Usually, when women pushed him away, he obliged in a heartbeat, no hard feelings and no grudges. This one though... whatever she was doing, it felt opposite to pushing away. He now had more desire to stay than ever before. Dean drew her in, wanting to hold on to her and never let go. She could throw him out but they both knew he'd never be free of her. Even if they never saw each other again, even if they would find someone else, they were under each other's skin, in every fiber of their being. They were entangled by one another and no force on Earth could break that twisted bond.

  
"Stay, please," Dean wispered, burrying his face in the soft chestnut coils of her hair and kissing her forehead. He wanted just one night with her as a free man. And he felt Margo give into the pattern his hands were drawing out on her body, press up against him, softly rubbing her face against his in a touch more intimate than kissing. But then she cut the cord.

  
"You break hearts when you go. I do when I stay," with that Dean's dream slipped through his hands, leaving his world orphaned and desolated.

  
Next morning Margo came to his room to find it empty. On the nightstand was the bottle of scotch with very little left. The bed was impeccably made. The injector was gone, so was the card along with some of Dean's clothes and a backpack. Resisting the rising scream that resonated inside of her skull, Margo nodded. Yes, Dean Winchester was gone. She closed the door and, empty-eyed, resigned herself to a life without him.


	20. Hey you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No summary. Just the end of this work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting this earlier than planned due to my busy schedule. Hope you all enjoy it. A big heartfelt thank you to the wonderful readers who supported me from the very start! You're all awesome, guys!
> 
> Needless to say, the chapter is named after a very well known Pink Floyd song.

Months passed in a senseless and empty parade. Life moved on around Margo in vibrant swirls, yet she herself felt nothing. Her mind existed in a limbo drained of color and feeling. She did what she knew so well. She hid behind mask after mask after mask, making public appearences with a string of young and handsome kings for a day. Not one made it to her bed. It was all just for show. No one even entered her house, except the invisible housekeeping service. The inner space of the mansion remained hollowed out like her heart, and just as untouchable.

  
She laughed to herself bitterly when she pondered her current situation. Once, after the best surgeons rebuilt her, she was so insecure as a woman that she turned to an expert to help her become the best lay a guy could find. She employed the help of a female instructor for top-end prostitutes to teach her everything there was to know about sex and seduction. A strange tactic for a rape survivor, but it helped her regain control and fix some things up in her mind. Margo was the kind of girl who got right back up on the horse after falling off. She did that before, she was doing it again. And just like then, her soul felt empty as she went through the motions. Now she used her aphrodisia-like charms mechanically and stopped the interaction dead in its tracks before it got close to anything remotly intimate. OK, she slept with one guy to show herself she could move on. She did not allow it to become more than a one night stand. Because Margo wanted to see Dean's green eyes drinking her image in, his slightly parted lips as a soft moan escaped them. She wanted to fall asleep cradled in his powerful arms and wake up next to his body sprawled across the bed. There was no replacing that.

  
In her mind Margo kept going back to all the times when she thought she'd wronged Dean. It was like self-inflicted punishment, returning to those situations and killing herself with guilt. She started having nightmares. The stress of the events caught up with her and almost every night she'd return to the time when she saw Dean in the correctional facility. Somehow it all got mixed up with her own traumatic experience and she'd dream of the monster attacking Dean while she had to watch helplessly. She tried to convince herself she moved on during the day, but the nights opened the doors to all the fears and guilt and self-hatered and pain. Worse than anything, Margo accepted it as a penance and sought no help or relief.  
It must have been six months since she and Dean went their separate ways when they called her. Margo thanked them, mindlessly got into her car and drove to see Sam Winchester. Some things you only say in person. She did not hesitate before talking to the young man. If there was an ax coming her way, she did not want to procrastinate and stretch out the anticipation.

  
"Sam, Dean is dead," she stated bluntly without so much as a hello. "Prineville, Oregon."

  
Sam gave her a strange look. A calm, calculating gaze very uncharecteristic of someone who just found out their close family member died. Then Sam asked her where the body was and offered to drive. Moving like her limbs were made of cotton, she handed him the keys and let him drive her Chevelle to the mortuary. Numb and stunned, she easily handed control over to the man she felt she was indebted to. Because his brother's death was somehow her fault. If Sam chose to strike her or yell at her, she'd accept it. But he just got behind the wheel and drove.

  
Everything was surreal. Dean lying there, looking more like a man-sized doll, the skin tightened on his face by death all too flawless. Margo thought this must be her brain reacting to the traumatic experience. But she couldn't believe it was the same warm, strong human being that not so long ago laughed, walked around her house, moved in sync with her. She brushed his sharp cheekbone with her fingertips. Why did it feel like a face she never knew?

  
"Do you know how he died?" she asked the little man in an impecably tidy suit who guided them through the funeral home to the morgue.

  
"He was stabbed in the heart, Miss," the man spoke softly, the leveled tone of his voice clearely a professional charecteristic. "Died instantly. We were told his body was found in the park outside the police station by an early morning dog walker. You can check the report at the sheriff's office. Now, how do you wish to dispose of the body?"

  
Dispose. A dead slave was just a biohazard to be disposed of. This caring selfless human being with a beautiful but tortured soul was gone forever and his remains could be discarded like fucking roadkill. She wasn't squemish before, but now felt like she might throw up. Margo looked up at Sam, who seemed very very cool for someone who was in the presence of his brother's corpse. But then, everyone reacts differently. She'd seen enough in her life not to judge.

  
"Cremation. We won't let him be thrown into a mass grave like trash. Right, Sam?"

  
"Of course," the younger man cast her a long look, as if he was trying to read her.

  
Someone else's steps sounded loud against the stone-tile floor as that person walked briskly and surely into the other-worldly stillness of the morgue.

  
"Why am I not surprised to see you two together here? I'd offer my condolences, but we'd all know they aren't sincere," came a familiar voice. Margo turned around and stared at the man who entered the small room.

  
"Is it customary for feds to come gloat like this?" Sam inquired, his voice acid.

  
"After Saint Louis I decided to see for myself," Victor Henriksen was not the most subtle tool in the shed. "Can't afford to make the same mistake twice with you guys."

  
Margo and Sam stood still and followed Victor with their eyes as the Agent came up to the metal table with Dean's body on it and looked over the wound, then lifted an eyelid. When he seemed to have satisfied his curiosity, Victor stepped away from the body.

  
"You sure you don't want to bite his liver out?" Sam asked with bitter sarcasm.

  
"Don't give your brother the credit he doesn't deserve, Sam," Victor replied coldly. "He was no hero. He met the end he deserved."

  
Lucky for Victor, Sam still had the reflexes of a hunter. Because had there been someone less quick or someone smaller, they would probably have failed to catch Margo in mid-air. Sure, Henriksen was a trained officer, but an unforseen and violent attack would have still been undesirable. Be it as it were, Sam's long arms wrapped around Margo's waist and drew the woman close to him in an iron grip.

  
"He's not worth it," Sam insisted as she struggled and growled like a crazed animal. "He's not worth it, Margo, let it go."

  
He overpowered her and forced her around, looking into her eyes.

  
"Hey, look at me! Look at me!" Sam caught her eyes. "Dean would not want you to get into trouble over him."

  
She froze, body stiff and trembling. Sam saw her eyes fill and overflow with tears. He drew her in and rested his head over hers, holding her tight, trying to soothe the grieving woman.

  
"I think you should leave her in peace now, Henriksen," the younger Winchester left no room for argument. "You've done enough."

  
When the mortitian and the agent left, Margo pressed her forehead into Sam's chest and let out an absolutely blood-curdling wail. As if her very soul was being ripped from her body. Sam closed his eyes and fought back the coiling pain that gripped his throat for a moment. Margo burried herself in the solid wall of muscle, clenched Sam's shirt like her life depended on it and wept inconsolably. As if Sam's actions gave her the green light to cry openly, the closed space created by his gigantic body becoming a shelter.

  
Some time after he was back behind the wheel of the Chevelle, driving them back to San Francisco, Margo curled up next to him, hugging the urn and crying silently. She seemed to be in a sort of trans, tears flowing freely from her eyes. If Sam had mixed feellings about her person before, they all paled before the crushing all-consuming grief he was witnessing now.

  
"I'm gonna kill him," he muttered. Margo stirred in response.

  
"Henriksen isn't worth it, you were right," her voice was coarse and her nose was obviously stuffed, but it was not comical in any way. Sam cast her a strange glance, but did not elaborate.

  
"I never thanked you," the young man said instead. "For saving our asses back in Nebraska."

  
"What does it matter now," Margo turned to look out the window. "He's dead. And it's my fault. I should have never let him go, not like this...."

  
She bit her lip and shut her eyes with force, a new wave of tears streaming down her cheeks. Sam tactfully waited for her to start breathing again.

  
"You know, I get it now, why Dean liked you so much," he shook his head, smiling lightly. "You two really do have a lot in common."

  
"He said he liked me?" Margo smirked at the childishness of the question, but if Dean spoke kindly of her, then maybe she could forgive herself just a little.

  
"You kidding me? I don't think I've ever heard my brother talk about a woman that much. Ever. And you must know how he is about sharing his thoughts," Sam checked to see how Margo was reacting. He wanted to get her out of that place where she shut the world out to be consumed by pain and loss. "You meant a lot to him. I guess I should be grateful you found him when he was going downhill. I'm sorry I gave you so much crap before."

  
Margo turned to Sam and smiled through the tears.

"I'm not bad, Mr.Winchester, I'm just drawn that way."

  
They both gave a short laugh, a symbol of reconcilliation and bonding for the sake of someone they both loved.

  
"I gotta admit, you were a great influence on him. Dean is not exactly a health nut. If it doesn't have grease and bacon on it, it's rabbit food," Sam smiled fondly. "But when I saw him about a week ago, he actually ordered orange juice. With no vodka! Why are you laughing?"

  
Margo was hysterical. She laughed her head off, snorting and heaving and crying. After it passed, she gave Sam a very, very subtle hint as to Dean's motivation. Sam, after a few confused “oh's”, got the hint and turned red as a lobster.

  
"Well," he finaly coughed out. "There you go. He wanted to see you, right?"

  
"Not necesseraly, Sam."

  
"Margo, Dean is the most loyal person I've ever known. Trust me, it was you and only you he wanted to see."

  
The silence that followed seemed easier, not constricting or smothering like before. As they neared the city closer to the evening, Sam asked if Margo had a certain place in mind to spread the ashes. She pondered for a second, then told Sam of the view point she and Dean went to after he fixed her King. Sam took out his cell when they stopped at a red light and quickly texted someone. Margo thought he was messaging his girlfriend and turned away.

  
The view point was free of people and cars, the wind coming from the ocean blowing harsh and strong. But Margo embraced it with relief. Her burning face felt cool against the violent air currents. The ocean was restless. Greyish-green waves were crashing below her, the fine traces of spray carried by the stormy wind up to where she and Sam stood. The sky was beginning to turn pink and fiery-orange. Sam gave her a little nudge and Margo neared the railing. Then, when she felt the wind blow away from the shore, she opened the lid of the urn and spilled the ashes into the air stream.

  
Margo did not know how long she stood there, allowing the wind to beat against her and tussle her hair. The colors of the sky became more saturated and the twilight was spilling around. She was so lost in the emptiness of her mind and heart that she took no notice of her surroundings. A car rolled into the parking space next to her King, tires crunching deliciously against the fine rubble. A door slammed. But it was only when she heard two men speak that she turned around. Margo froze in horror. Next to her Chavelle stood its older sister, all sleek black and chrome. Leaning on her hood was Dean Winchester. Very much alive and healthy.

  
He seemed different. More like the man Margo saw inside rather than the slave she owned. This Dean was larger than life, his presence powerful and intense. The ease in his body was that of a natural born killer, deadly and sure of himself. Margo felt like she's been thrown into some epic movie and stood in the presence of its legendary hero. This was Dean that shed his old ugly skin to reveal his true form. For the first time ever Margo was seeing Dean Winchester.

  
"Always wondered what my funeral would look like," he smiled.

  
Margo screamed. It was not a high-pitch girl-from-a-horror-flick scream. It was a terrified animal cry. Primal, gutteral. Pain, fear, disbelief, all wrapped up in one. And then she did the only thing her instincts allowed. She threw the urn at the ghost in front of her, aiming for the head.

  
"Whoa, you could've hit my car," Dean caught the urn right in front of his face and grinned proudly at his brother. "Told ya she had a hunter's instinct!"

  
"It's OK," Sam put in his two cents. "It's really him, Margo. It was all a set-up to get the law off his tail."

  
Dean tossed the urn away and approached Margo gingerly.

  
"C'mon, it really is me, see?"

  
She touched the hand he stretched out to her. It was warm and familiar. And so was his face, and those green eyes. Not at all like the Ken doll back at the morgue. This was a real man. The real Dean. Shamelessly Margo gripped him tight and pressed against him so hard, it seemed like she wanted to meld them both together. Dean wrapped his arms around her as if she were his lifeline. These past few months he was a man dying of thirst in the desert. And now, having found his oasis, he could not get enough of her. Greedily he drank in her smell, the feel of her silky hair coiling around his fingers, the supple warmth of her body. He could drown in her and would do so gladly. And Margo, who's been wondering in a world frozen by pain and darkness for so long had finally found the fire she so badly needed. As her soul warmed itself against the flame, it wept from the sting of returning to life.

  
"I though I lost you," Margo whispered. "I thought I'd go crazy without you."

  
And then it hit her. She pulled away from Dean and looked at him in a manner far from kind. Then at his brother.

  
"You let me think you were dead," she stated. "You let me go through that hell, thinking you were dead...."

  
"I'll go wait for you over there," Sam mumbled and retreated quickly.

  
"Dude, wait!"

  
"Don't look at me Dean, this was your plan. I warned you!"

  
"Traitor!" Dean yelled already trying to shield himself from the furious Margo.

  
"You fucking asshole! Don't you get too comfortable among the living, you dick, I will put you in the ground myself and do the Mexican hat dance on your fucking grave!" she punched and screamed. "Did you enjoy the show? You enjoyed making a fool of me?"

  
"I had to get Henriksen to believe I was dead," Dean tried catching and subduing her, holding her arms, but Margo viciously kicked his leg. Dean stoically held on, praying she wouldn't go for the family jewels.

  
"You could've told me! I would have acted! Instead you made me think you were dead! You slefish, childish bastard! You..."

  
There was only one good way Dean knew to interrupt a furious woman. He crashed his lips against Margo's and did not let go until she eased in his grip. Then Dean released her and let her caress his neck and prolong the kiss further.

  
"I'm sorry," Dean murmured into her lips, stealing more little kisses. "But I needed you to see it with your eyes."

  
"See what? Your dead body?" doubtless, Margo was still pissed.

  
"Exactly. Did it look real? Feel real?" Dean studied her face as she nodded cautiously. "That's because it was real. It was a creature that took on my shape. Killed it with a silver dagger to the heart."

  
Margo listened silently as Dean raised a curtain on a new world of shapeshifters and werewolves and demons. He spoke of the family business and the truth behind the charges of rape, murder and grave desecration against him. He gave it all up in short information-packed sentences, but Margo's brain overflowed from all of it. She thought she must be crazy, but she believed him.

  
"These creatures are everywhere? Jesus, I wonder how many of the bastards I've met were actually not human. Give me a second to process," she pleaded and leaned against the hood of the Impala, shivering from the cold coming from under her skin. A nervous reaction. Dean noticed and threw his arm around her, rubbing Margo's skin through her jacket to warm her up. The woman looked up into his forest green eyes.

  
"Freedom suits you," she stated. "So this is what you've been doing these past months? Chasing nightmares?"

  
"You told me to go find myself," Dean curved his lips in a smile. "So I did."

  
"Cute. Didn't expect you to be so literal. What now?"

 

"Working a case. Feels awesome to be back on the job, kickin' ass again, you know?" Dean got weird all of the sudden. Margo couldn't put her finger on it, but it was quite obvious. "Might have to go away for a while. But I'll be back, if you want me to, that is."

 

"As long as it isn't in a body bag, sure."

  
"Ain't you a glass half-full," Dean let out a deep breath, as if mustering up courage for the next step. "Gotta show you something, let's get in the car."

  
Away from the thrashing wind and the dimming light he handed her the file he and Bobby put together. When Margo opened it, her stomach shriveled up. She blanched and looked over at Dean, who was observing her carefully. Staring at her from the drawing in the file was her African horror. A one-eyed bat-like freak with a toothy grin from ear to ear.

  
"How did you... I never told anyone...," she managed.

  
"This what you saw that night?" his voice was compassionate and gentle.

  
Margo nodded, and Dean decided to elaborate. He told her everything he managed to dig up on the creature, told her how her story gave him a hunch. Overcoming her nausea, Margo halted him.

  
"Dean, this thing is strong and fast and.... Don't go after it. Whatever happened to me, that's not on you, that's on me."

  
"What are you talking about?"

  
"I, um... I guess I deserved it. I'm not an innocent victim, Dean. Don't get chivalrous over me. I did what I did because I got high on adrenalin. I spent my days knee-deep in shit because I enjoyed it. Not exactly Mother Teresa, you know? I guess that was life's way of paying back."

  
"OK, stop this crap," Dean grabbed her hand and forced Margo to look at him. "I read what you wrote and no fucking way will you make me believe you didn't care for the people you wrote about. Sure, you're an adrenalin junkie. I get it, believe me. 'S not a crime! Loved your job? Also not a crime. No one, human or not, had the right to do what that thing did. So I'm ganking this son of a bitch and that's it."

  
"You mean to tell me you will endure two, maybe even three flights? Just on the way there? C'mon!"

  
"Hey, wherever the job takes us," Dean smirked.

  
"Sam's going too? Of course he is. But you're legally dead...."

  
"Not my first time!"

  
Margo rolled her eyes, flipped the pages of the file and noticed something.

  
"Says here, this thing likes to attack its victims again if it meets them...."

  
"Hell no! I'm not using you as bait," Dean cursed himself for not having thought of removing that page. "Can't hunt if I'm worried about you."

  
"You got any better ideas, Dean? You want to take this fucker down you're gonna need me."

  
The argument that ensued was fierce. Both Dean and Margo refused to back down. They were at an impass when Sam finally decided he's given them enough time and got into the back seat of the Impala.

  
"Trouble in paradise, Dean?" the giant little brother teased.

  
"Bite me, sasquatch," Dean snapped back, but complained. "Margo here wants to go hunt that shifter. Maybe you can talk some sense into her."

  
"Actually, I think it's a good idea," Sam argued. The look Dean gave him was priceless, but Sam wasn't kidding. "Think about it, Margo has a lot of valuable information for this hunt and she's our ticket to drawing the thing out."

  
"For fuck's sake, Sam, I'm not dangling Margo in front of a monster," Dean said sternly and glared at his brother.

  
"Did you ever think about how Margo might feel? That she actually might want revenge? Maybe you can relate to that, Dean," Sam was not giving an inch. "Somehow, you don't strike me as someone who'd prefer to sit this one out, Margo."

  
"Thanks, Sam," she was surprised but grateful for the backup. "Dean, you are not the one to bench me. You don't want to do this together, I'll go on my own."

  
"The fuck you will," the older hunter grumbled. But he knew this woman well enough to see that wasn't an empty threat. "Fine! Fine, you two win. But I'm training you and we don't go until I say you're ready!"

  
"Just don't get too bossy," Margo agreed. Sort of. More like warned him, arching a brow.

  
"And you get inked up. Anti-posession tattoo. Bodypart of your choice. Chose something that is not easily chopped off," he looked at her, hoping she'd say no to that condition. But she agreed, and both Margo and Sam looked smugly at the steaming elder Winchester.

  
"When did you two become such pals anyway?" Dean mumbled angrily.

  
"We bonded over your corpse," she provided with a dazzling smile.

"Told you it was a bad idea," Sam grinned victoriously.

  
As a quiet stream of barely audible profanities spilled from Dean's mouth, Margo turned to Sam and announced:  
"Don't know about you, but I'm starving. Wanna go grab some dinner? I know a really good place."

  
It was Dean who responded, food always drawing his attention unless something was really really wrong with him. Margo told him the address and, just as she was about to step out of the car, she closed in on the space between her and Dean and kissed him. The harsh look left Dean's face and he ran his hand through her hair. Dean smelled of old leather, peat smoke whiskey, Old Spice and gunpowder. His lips tasted like sin. Margo let herself get lost in him, like he was the entire world. Thankfully, Dean seemed to be doing the same thing. Until Sam caughed in the back.

  
A couple of minutes later the solid black Chevelle roared, showing off for the gorgeous purring Impala next to it. Two magnificent black beasts pulled out of the parking lot, slipping into the night traffic, like sharks among schools of prey fish. A new world unfolded around Margo, a world of monsters and magic. And Dean Winchester. Despite the scary as hell expansion of her universe, for the first time in ages she did not feel weak and frightened. She felt like her old self again, bold, confident and ready to take on the challenges ahead.

  
Neither Margo nor Dean knew where the new road would take them. Messed up, disillusioned and cynical, they found something crucial in each other. Words like “hope” and “salvation” and “love” were too big and scary. It was too soon for that kind of language. Most importantly now these two rediscovered exactly what they were, the sediment washed away, revealing the true self. And they were there, one next to the other, ready to offer everything they had to the person they had yet to admit they loved. So much was wrong, and so much was right. A path lay ahead for both to follow. Somehow, at least for the night, the two of them had the wisdom to take it one step at a time. Neither knew where it would get them, but they would go there together and that was enough.


End file.
